


Prelude in C

by ATONAU



Series: The Compositions [1]
Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ATONAU/pseuds/ATONAU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlisle Cullen had experienced a long existence of isolation and facade, but the final wish of a dying woman sets him on a path to end his solitude forever. 'Prelude in C' explores the beginning of Clan Cullen: the transition of Carlisle from an isolated man to the head of a family. It starts in 1918 and will end in about 1930 or so. It involves the dynamics between Carlisle, Edward and Esme, as they learn to trust and depend upon one another.  Winner of 2012 "Sunflower Award" & 2011 Vampie "Bloody Brilliant". NixHaw's fabulous <a href="http://grooveshark.com/#!/playlist/Prelude+In+C+By+ATONAU/60866524">web playlist</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
Chicago, 1918.

EPOV

The wind blew my mother’s dress around her legs, and she quickly reached up to secure her hat before the gust tugged the wide brim, giving it wings.  Her eyes danced as I leapt from rock to rock on the breakwater, and then sprinted up the beach to join her.  I was showing off, but she was in a tolerant mood.  More than tolerant.  It had been ages since we’d been to the shore, and we were both reveling in the fresh air, sparkling diamonds on the water, and the calls of gulls and terns.  My father was far back along the beach, walking in a steady rhythm; whether he was composing a business memo or a sonata, I wasn’t sure—his shoulders always hunched thoughtfully in either case.  I flashed a grin at my mother and raced down to the water again.  Her shoes didn’t allow for such antics, and she was too proper a lady to partake anyway, but she laughed and raised her face to the sun, soaking in the warmth. She strolled toward the water slowly, her face beaming. 

“Edward…” she called laughing. 

“Shhhh…Edward, it’s okay.”  I opened my eyes, trying to make sense of my surroundings.  There was a moist cloth on my brow and an ashen, sallow woman standing over me talking, but I couldn’t understand the words.  I looked at the bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, blue sky gone.  A moan broke through the hushed room.  The smell of death flooded my nostrils, and I knew this place.  I looked at the woman, and knew the gold flecks in her green eyes. Anguish burned through me.   I looked away—it was too painful—and saw the empty bed on my other side.  Where was my father?  A fevered vision of the bed being wheeled away entered my mind.  He was dead.  We would all die here.  I looked back to my mother’s eyes.  Not her face—I couldn’t bear to see her face like that—but her eyes, which somehow were still full of love and concern, even pride.  I groaned as the pain overwhelmed me again, and stared sightlessly at the ceiling while trickles of sweat trailed along my temple.  The heat of the fever tortured every nerve, yet I shivered.

A new voice caught my attention. A musical voice.  I looked for my mother, but she was gone—no, lower, in her own bed again.  I looked to the foot of her bed and saw an angel in white.  An angel was talking to my mother, smiling at her, and holding her chart.  _That can’t be right_.  I blinked and looked again.  No. A doctor.  His fair hair illuminated from behind by one of the bare light bulbs looked like a halo, and his lab coat was still clean…must be the start of a new shift.  He was smiling kindly, asking my mother questions.  The actual words eluded me, but their tenor was compassionate.  I heard my name, and he looked at me.  _Handsome boy…_ s _uch a waste._   I could see the sentiment on his face, though I couldn’t be sure I’d heard him say it. 

The angel-doctor moved between our beds to examine my mother more closely.  She gasped as he placed his hands behind her shoulders to help her drink.  He muttered something about having just come in from outside.  She pleaded with him to take care of me, and not worry about her.  He turned to me and shone a light in my eyes. 

“Edward, can you hear me?”  _Still in there, son?_ I tried to speak but could only focus on my labored breath.  The light was gone.

Time seemed to ebb and flow, like the fever that wracked my body. Waves of heat crested and waned, only to build again.  Colors danced across my eyes, whether they were opened or closed.  The colors formed dots, and the dots formed notes, and the notes formed Bach’s Prelude in C, it’s aching beauty playing through my mind.

I heard the faint rhythmic squeak of wheels as they rolled another bed out of the ward and into the next room: the room of the dead.  Calling this ward part of the hospital implied too much optimism.  It was an extension of the morgue.  The waiting room.  None of us would leave it through the other set of doors.  Those doors were just for the doctors. 

The room grew brighter, and another doctor came to speak with us.  This one was red-faced and clutched a mask over his mouth.  His face said what he shouldn’t voice: _Why did they send me here?  I’m too important to be exposed.  I don’t belong here._ His eyes darted as he added notes to our charts.  He did not smile kindly; he was no angel.

More beds were brought in.  I looked to my side and thought for a moment that my father was back, or that I’d only imagined him being gone.  But it was another man. Another family broken.  Another sufferer.  My breathing grew faster as my skin began to burn again, the pain in my abdomen intense.  I focused on the ragged breathing of my mother, and checked that she was still at my other side.  The moaning in the room increased as the new patients realized that they had passed through the proverbial gates, and were waiting for the boatman to take them to Hades. Their agony permeated me, as though I were a sponge.  I could imagine their thoughts; we all had the same thoughts here in the waiting room.  Thoughts of anger and regret, suffering, betrayal, and finally acquiescence.  Slowly, the moaning calmed as the new nearly-dead accepted their fate.  The rhythm was the same every day.  I’d lost track of how long I’d witnessed it.  I had no idea if I’d even been semi-conscious much of the time. 

The room slowly darkened again, and the bulbs scattered across the ceiling were lit like beacons.  I closed my eyes and I could still see them.   Like fireflies. I saw my mother’s face, surrounded by fireflies in the backyard.  A dinner party.  She looked lovely, radiant, joyful…Chopin’s Nocturne wafted through the French doors of the parlor…Father was at the piano.  Mother danced in the grass as she cleared the glasses from the tables.  I tried to hum along, but my throat was so dry, my body so heavy.  I concentrated on the melody, and my mother dancing.

The bed shook and my eyes fluttered open for a moment; the angel-doctor was holding my mother. 

“Mrs. Masen!  What are you trying to do?  You aren’t strong enough…let me help you lie down.”

“ _What_ _are you_?”  She asked as she grasped his arms.  My eyes fell closed. 

“I’m your doctor, and I’m here to help you.”  He lifted her into her bed, but his voice was discomposed.  The man next to me moaned, drowning out their hushed conversation.  Then I heard her clearly.

“You must save my Edward!” she coughed, and then took several labored breaths.  Her voice sounded frenzied, as though she were using every last bit of her energy.  “Only you can help him.” 

I heard the angel-doctor freeze.  I felt the questions in his pause: _What is she asking? What does she know?_

“You can save him; only you can,” she said, and then lay back in her bed, gasping.  He whispered something to her, and then called loudly.

“Nurse!”

There were sounds of people all around my mother’s bed.  I tried to sit up, but my head spun, and I fell back, my eyes closed and my breath shallow.  What was my mother asking him?  I was beyond being saved.  My dreams, military aspirations, desire for glory…I’d let go of those days ago.  I only clung to memories now.  Any petty worries over perceived injustices of my childhood had vanished as I desperately focused on the best memories.  The activity at the next bed continued, but made no sense to me.  I tried to listen to what were likely my mother’s last moments.  The sounds were confused…too many voices… anguish and pain wracked my mind and body.  I tried to remember the Chopin melody, but couldn’t.  I sunk into oblivion. 

 

CPOV

I stared at the empty space where Mrs. Masen’s bed had been, as I listened to it pass through the morgue doors.  I’d known there was almost no chance of her surviving, but I was still sad to have her gone.  Sad and unnerved.  She’d seen me.  The _real_ me—or at least she glimpsed some portion of the truth beyond my human façade.  My veil had not slipped in such a very long time.  To be actually seen, and received not as a frightening beast, but as something good, something that could save her son.  To have my acts show through…what I do rather than what I am…this was nothing I’d met with in my existence.  It was always my prayer.  That somehow a form of salvation was possible for me, despite the fact that I was inhuman—that what I did with the lot fate offered me was more important than the fate itself.  But to be faced with the reality of that acceptance was both humbling and empowering.

That’s not to say Elizabeth Masen fully understood what she was asking.  She did not understand that I was a vampire—I could not consider myself a monster—but she did understand I was something different from her.  She knew I was inhuman… _you’re_ _more than that_ she’d said.  She’d made it clear that if Edward had to be like me to be saved, that was her wish.  She would rather that he were like me, than that he succumbed to this plague.  She must have seen me as _good_ , if she wanted that for him.

I turned and looked at the boy, crouching so I was eye-level to his face.  He was out cold, and I didn’t need medical instruments to assess his vital signs.  I could see, smell and hear all I needed; he would be dead within and hour…two at the most.  If I was really going to do this, I couldn’t delay.  I weighed the implications of the choice before me.  On the one hand, there was a distinct possibility that I’d be robbing him of his soul.  I didn’t truly believe this, or at least I fought against it, justifying my good actions as proof of my soul…but I knew this was dubious logic.  _And_ there was the possibility that I would simply drain him; that I would be unable to stop once I’d had my first taste of human blood, despite the long centuries of control.  If I did drain him, it might change me in such a way that my control was compromised forever.  Even tasting him might alter me, making it more difficult to interact with humans in the future…possibly even forcing me to lose my practice. 

But on the other hand…to have a companion that really knew and accepted me would be a gift beyond any I could imagine.  I’d spent the vast majority of my existence trying to blend with humans.  I was generally on good terms with my colleagues at the hospitals, but the relationships were shallow and fleeting; I could never stay in one place more than seven or eight years without it being noticeable that I wasn’t aging.  And even casual friendships were dangerous.  It was so easy to slip up in conversation, admit to seeing something or someone that I should not have been alive to see.  The closest I’d come to a lasting friendship was with Aro in Italy.  I’d stayed there several decades, the longest I’d ever stayed in one place.  But eventually his contempt for human life drove me away.   Despite enjoying the companionship, and the ability to discuss all manner of artistic or cultural pursuits, I could not abide his reckless disdain for humans.  I called him a friend, but I knew the truth: he was merely the closest thing I had to one.  And that was a very sad fact.

This was the best opportunity that I’d ever had, or likely would have. The boy was close to death, but his heart was still beating strong.  He had no remaining direct relatives; the distant ones lived several states away.  No one would be looking for him too closely, or too soon. The final question was this: would the boy forgive me?  If I succeeded in changing him, it did not necessarily follow that he would be the companion I yearned for.  He may resent this new life…the possible stripping of his soul…being forced to outlive all those he cared about.  But he was his mother’s son; I’d seen that as they interacted the last several nights.  And she’d accepted me.  Perhaps he would too.  It was likely a selfish decision, and I hoped I would forgive myself for it someday, but I wrapped myself in Elizabeth Masen’s final request on this earth, and made my choice.  Now I had only to carry it out as carefully as possible.  And quickly.  I was racing his heart now.  And the sun; I had less than an hour before dawn.

“Dr. Cullen?  Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Michaela,” I said as the nurse approached.  I’d been too still again.  I was getting sloppy.  I stood and took one last look at Edward’s face before covering it with a sheet.

“That one too?” she asked sympathetically.

I looked at the ground and shook my head sadly, beginning my act.  “I’ll take care of this one, Michaela.  I need to complete the paperwork for the morgue on the ones we lost tonight, and go see Dr. Anderson before my shift is over.  Could you please take Mr. and Mrs. Jensen their medications for me?”

“Of course, doctor,” she called after me as I wheeled Edward into the morgue, struggling in my excitement to keep my walk at a human speed. 

Once the doors closed, I moved faster; no one in here could observe.  I was good at covering my tracks, but falsifying medical records wasn’t something I’d had to do before.  Still, I knew the gaps in the system, especially a system struggling to keep up with the death toll that we were currently dealing with.  The bodies of the flu victims were being cremated before being released to the families, for public health reasons.  There were two groups: those that we had names for, and those that we didn’t.  I found an unnamed corpse that matched Edward’s general description, removed its toe label and placed it on Edward.  Then I quickly filled out another label and put it on the new boy’s toe.  I grabbed his corpse, and Elizabeth’s, and moved them to the front of the line, next to Mr. Masen.  I hoped the evidence would be burned tomorrow, without anyone getting much of a look at the bodies.  That covered Edward’s tracks.  As I turned to cover my own, I noticed Elizabeth Mason’s hand had become uncovered.  She still wore her wedding ring.  If Edward survived, he should have it.  I removed it and placed it in my pocket, thanking Elizabeth one more time as I squeezed her hand. 

I placed Edward, still covered, on a table in the corner amidst the other nameless victims, and hoped he would not attract notice—and that he would keep breathing—during the few minutes I needed to cover my own tracks.  I made the final notes to Edward’s chart, and placed it and the ones I’d finished earlier in the dead file.  Then I raced into the safe room on my way to Dr. Anderson’s office, and quickly identified Mr. Masen’s box.  There was a ring, a silver cigarette box, and some cash.  I left the cash, and pocketed the other items, replacing the ring with one from another container so it Mr. Masen’s box wouldn’t look too empty.  These were Edward’s things.  I’d work on the rest of his legacy later, but as least I could offer him these.  I felt in my breast pocket for the telegram that I always carried with me, the date smudged, and ran to Dr. Anderson’s office.

“Come in, Carlisle,” he said as I knocked on the open door. 

“Peter, I’ve got a problem.  I received this telegram earlier.  My sister and her husband have succumbed to the flu in Pittsburgh.  I need to go look after my nephew, and deal with their estate.  I’m sorry to leave you on such short notice…”

“Carlisle, I’m so sorry!  Of course you need to go.  Let Catherine and I know if we can do anything for you while you’re gone.  You’ve been so accommodating about working the night shifts, I’m sure the other doctor’s will be happy to cover you for as long as you need.”  I hadn’t thought of that.  It might be useful to be able to come back.  Then again, if I succeeded, Edward would be an unruly newborn for a year, and would be my new full-time job.

“I don’t know when I’ll be able to come back.  And I’d hate to see you short-handed when things are so crazy, Peter.  I would have come up earlier, but we lost the Masen’s, the Black’s and little Lucia Mathers tonight, and I’ve been trying to keep up with the paperwork.  I’m afraid you shouldn’t hold my job for me, though I do truly appreciate the offer.”

Peter’s face turned grim.  “Well, I’m sorry to lose you, Carlisle.  If you’re ever back this way let me know.  You’re a fine doctor and I’d always make a place for you.”  He held out his hand to shake mine, but I pulled my hand back.

“We’d better not.  I just came from the morgue and haven’t washed up.  Thank you for everything you’ve done for me, Peter.  I appreciate it so much,” I said smiling. That was true.  I’d enjoyed this job.  “I’m going to try to make the 8 a.m. train.  If it looks like I’ll be able to return soon, I’ll send you a telegram in a few days.  If you don’t hear from me…”

“I’ll put the word out today that we’re looking for a new doctor.  You’re right; we can’t be short- staffed right now.  Carlisle, I wish you all the best.” 

I took my leave, and as soon as I was clear of his sight, I raced at inhuman speed to get back to the morgue.  Edward was right where I’d left him, his breathing shallower, but his heart still strong.  Now to get him out without being seen.  All the exits either took me through crowded parts of the hospital or onto sidewalks aglow with streetlights.  And dawn was nearing.  I wracked my brain for several seconds, running through the options over and over.  Then the solution hit me.  I took Edward and carried him to the side stairwell.  It was empty.  I quickly climbed the stairs all the way to the attic; this was used for storing archived records, and was completely deserted.  I made my way to the front of the building, where I could access the clock tower, and climbed those two sets of stairs.  Now high above the street, above even the surrounding rooftops, looked out through the eastern arch to see the first signs of dawn.

“I hope I’m doing the right thing, Edward.”  Feeling every bit the vampire stealing away with his victim, I leapt from the clock tower to the next building, and continued north, bounding over rooftops as I left the city.

 

EPOV

I was flying.  Cool wind brushed my face and my stomach lurched as I felt myself rise and fall, rise and fall.  Was I dead?  Was I ascending to heaven?  But I kept falling too…perhaps the fates were unsure where I belonged next.  If I were dead, wouldn’t the pain be gone?  I took a ragged breath and smelled a forest. Then I groaned as the pain overwhelmed me again.

“We’re almost there, Edward.”  The musical voice.  I realized I was being carried.  Cold, hard arms held me close as I flew.  The rhythmic rising and falling rocked me like a child.  I slipped into darkness again.

The pain was changing.  It was acute now, at my neck, instead of the dull constant pain in my head and abdomen.  I was lying down.  I must have dreamt of flying.  I must be in my bed.  Had they injected me with more medicine?  I tried to open my eyes, but couldn’t.  I felt the fever, and the chills, and the ache in my muscles, and the pain in my gut, but this new sharp pain was beginning to overshadow them all.  It was silent except for my quick shallow breaths. The pain turned hot, and spread.  Was it acid?  Was it fire?  Was the hospital burning?  My whole body could now feel the fire, and whatever mild pain I’d suffered from the influenza was nothing compared to agonizing blaze that engulfed me now.  We must be burning alive.  The building must have caught fire so quickly they couldn’t evacuate.  Or they focused on those with a chance of survival, and left the morgue to burn.  The blaze finally brought my consciousness to the surface, and I was able to let out a scream and open my eyes.  Where were the other screams? Where were the flames?  Why was I burning alone in a quiet, dimly lit room? 

Not alone.  The face of the angel-doctor came into view above me.  He was talking, stroking my hair, trying to soothe.  I could only hear the scream, and feel the flames: the invisible flames that licked my flesh, and seared through my veins like lava.  At least with pain this acute, it must be over soon.  I’d clung to life in the hospital, straining against the looming darkness.  I’d known it was coming, was resigned, in some ways.  But I’d still fought for life, fought to hear my mother’s labored breaths, fought to understand the patterns of the day; who was coming, who was going, where I fit in my surroundings.  Now I cared for nothing but the blaze raging through my body.  I welcomed death.  It could not come soon enough.  The fires of hell could have nothing on the wretched inferno that burned through me now, and perhaps…perhaps…I would end up somewhere else.  Somewhere cool, where sickness would never reach me, and I could find joy again.  Or maybe there would be nothing.  Oblivion, too, would be welcome.  Nothingness would be bliss.

But the burn didn’t end.  I waited to go into shock.  Surely my mind would protect me from this excruciating pain…but it did not.  In fact, it seemed focused on the pain.  I tried to hear music, or the angel-doctor, or see colors.  But I only saw red, only felt the searing burn, only heard my own voice, shrieking in pain.  I felt the wall of fire, and then each individual tongue of the flame, entering each artery, each capillary, each cell.  Each minutia of change in the blaze claimed the attention of my mind, until I was focused on each tortured nerve at once.  There was no room left in my mind for anything but the pain.  And time, which had ebbed and flowed in the hospital, came to a stop.

  
This chapter's music

_Edward's delirium:_

 

_Chopin's Nocturne Ed Sr. plays for Elizabeth in Edward’s memory:_

 

Cook County Hospital circa early 1900s  
  



	2. Chapter 2

CPOV

I held my hand over my mouth and backed away from the table, until I could grasp something, anything, to keep me from approaching Edward again. I had barely been able to stop drinking his blood, despite my precautions. I'd fixed Elizabeth Masen's face in my mind before biting him, remembering her words, her pleading eyes. Hoping that the memory of her—her last wish, and her faith in me—would counteract the first taste of human blood. It had only just worked. I'd tried to merely bite, and not drink, but I was so startled by the flavor that I'd drawn in a mouthful, and that had almost been my undoing. I'd drained more of him than was necessary, taking several gulps as I fought to control myself, willing myself to let go. My eyes had seen only crimson, once his soft throat lay open beneath my lips, the pulsing blood so much more fragrant and delectable than anything I'd tasted or even dreamed of before. I'd shuddered in near ecstasy. I'd finally understood something of Aro's perspective. If I'd started with this ambrosia, and didn't see humans as true people, it would be hard to imagine feeding on anything else. It had finally been the vision of Aro's crimson eyes, superimposed with Elizabeth Masen's green ones, that had allowed me to pull away from Edward's open throat: the fear of what I might become, juxtaposed with all I hoped I was worthy of.

I clung to the doorframe behind me as my breathing slowed and my vision returned to a normal spectrum. I'd done it. The bloodlust was passing and I hadn't killed him. His heart still beat…I swallowed down another surge of venom at the thought. Edward was not my prey. He was a person, and I hoped, one day, perhaps a friend. I let out a haggard breath.

The wound on his neck had already sealed, the venom taking immediate effect. His smell had almost changed enough that I could approach and clean the blood from the wound, but I didn't dare quite yet. He would have a scar, like mine. I'd thought about trying to bite him somewhere less obvious, but all I really knew was my own transformation, and the safest thing to do was replicate my own wound. The scar would fade, after all…humans never noticed mine. Edward started to twitch, and I knew that the rest of my experience was about to be replicated as well. Sympathy flooded me, and I hoped again that Edward would forgive me for this selfish act. His body began to thrash, and the predator within me was completely suppressed; I'd already started toward him when his eyes opened wide and he let out an agonizing scream. The doctor in me immediately took over, and I was standing by his side, washing his wound, stroking his hair, trying to reassure him that he wasn't alone, that the pain would pass, that his new life would be free of sickness. Watching his eyes, I could tell he neither saw nor heard much of what surrounded him. I wished I'd had the foresight to take some sedative when I left the hospital. I wondered as I watched him suffer, if I could have eased his pain with ether or morphine; I wished I'd remembered it as I left the hospital, but I hadn't been thinking that far ahead. I had some tools in my black bag upstairs, but only local anesthetics and mild pain relievers—useless.

Though his eyes had searched for contact when he first began crying out, they were now unseeing; he was completely consumed with his own agony. If memory served, it would last for days. I stayed with him, despite knowing he was not aware I was there. It was right that I suffer with him, but it was time that I finally did think ahead. I was no longer racing his heart or the sun; there was time to think of the future now. What did I need to do before he awoke? What would he need to be comfortable here? I took his paltry inheritance from my pockets. The cigarette case and two rings were all that he had to remember his previous life…it was barely more than I had, but all that was duly his lay only a few miles away. How was I to secure it for him?

I wasn't worried about him needing wealth. I had plenty to share for now. It was the heirlooms I wished to secure…his ties to his family and past. Though I must consider the possibility that he will not always wish to stay with me. I sighed at the thought, but I must prepare for it. His parents, I felt sure, would have prepared for him to be able to support himself with an education, some wealth, and some instruction on how to protect that wealth. I was a poor substitute for his parents, but would do what I could. The first step was to ensure he actually inherited his parents' estate.

I grew frustrated with myself. I'd thought I was so clever, being so careful with his chart. Now I regretted it. When the cremation took place later today, a death certificate would be created, based on the time of death I'd just written in his chart an hour earlier. This would be problematic for the inheritance. I sighed, contemplating the problem. The morgue was completely overwhelmed; all that really needed to be done was to sow a seed of doubt. The family house itself would remain under quarantine for at least a week; no one would be taking stock of the estate until that point, and it would likely take longer than that. It would be feasible that Edward had been discharged to a relative once his parents passed, and that some other young man had been mistaken for him in the confusion of the epidemic. All I really had to do was strip the file of the time of death, and make a reference to a discharge, without an actual time. No death certificate could be created. Then a letter sent in a week or so to the family lawyer explaining that Edward had been released to a distant relative, where he was recovering slowly, would put the estate in limbo until he was able to present himself and claim it. His eyes would change from crimson to amber after a few months, and then it was just a matter of waiting for his control to be sufficient for a meeting. Even if he had to wait an entire year, it seemed likely that letters could drag out the proceedings enough to allow for it. I knew enough law to be able to draw this out. And if it looked like we were failing in our efforts, there were other ways to secure the most precious keepsakes for him.

The plan formulated in my mind. I hated to leave Edward, but I could do what was necessary at the hospital and be back within an hour, and his condition was not going to change before then. My home was isolated enough that I had little fear of his cries leading others to him in his unprotected state. The question became whether I show up at the hospital, claiming to have missed my train, or be completely clandestine. I looked at my reflection in the mirror; my eyes had a slight crimson tinge, but it would probably not be noticeable to humans. I looked out the window, and noticed the slight overcast of the day. It would be risky to do it now; the sun could break out at any moment. I could easily be caught. However, if I waited, it would be more likely that I'd missed my chance to change the chart discretely, without having to tamper with other records as well…the more complicated this became, the more likely I'd miss a step and have contradictory elements in the records that would not pass scrutiny. And the longer I waited, the more likely Edward would become aware of his surroundings without me here to help him.

"Edward," I said, stroking his hair again. He was whimpering, having exhausted himself somewhat with his cries. "I'll be back as soon as I'm able. I'm so sorry. This is new for me, too," I added as an excuse for my lack of foresight.

I grabbed a long coat, gloves, and a hat, so that I could minimize my skin exposure once I got to the city. I left the house directly, blurring back though the forest as quickly as possible. I tried to think of what else I might have missed. He would need a room; a place to claim as his own, where he could avoid me, if he liked. I didn't know what he would want in it, but I could at least clear my belongings out of one so he had the option. If we were going to be successful in a claim with a lawyer, we were going to need documents. I could forge them, of course, but it would prove embarrassing if the real ones then turned up in the house. So a visit was going to be necessary while it was under quarantine. For any other plans, I was going to need information that only Edward could supply. I reached the edge of the forest, and came to a stop, trying to decide how to proceed.

The streets were not terribly crowded; it was after the initial rush of businessmen getting to their offices, but well before the shops opened. However, I didn't know who might be watching from the windows. I made sure my hat was pulled down low, hunched my shoulders so I was looking down, and moved as fast as humanly possible though the several blocks to the back of the hospital, where a shadowy alley held a service entrance to the hospital. After waiting several agonizing minutes for the alley to clear, and the sounds behind the door to fade as well, I slipped in and made my way to the back of the morgue. I hid in the shadows as two men rolled another gurney down the hall toward the crematorium. When silence fell on the morgue again, I sped to the waiting bodies, relieved to see the Masens still there, only three back from the front now. I removed the toe tag from the boy standing in for Edward, and rushed to the dead file, where I'd placed all the charts just hours earlier. They were gone, and panic seized me, until I saw a stack of charts on the table in the corner, apparently in alphabetical order. I grabbed Edward's and moved to a darkened closet, where I could review and alter it without fear of being caught, while still being able to hear anything happening in the morgue.

I quickly altered the chart appropriately, crumpling and pocketing the page with the death and replacing it with a notation of the death of the parents, and requesting contact for familial discharge. Then I read the portion of the chart I'd never bothered with: the section in the back with the billing contact—this was likely the estate lawyer, or someone appropriate to contact about it. I already knew his next of kin, but I read further, to any family contacts listed. When I'd gleaned everything I could, I listened carefully at the door, and then made my way back to the table, replacing Edward's chart, and then leaving the hospital for what I knew must be my last time. The Masens were no longer in the morgue; I'd been just in time.

It was frustrating to walk at a human pace on my way back to the forest; I was desperate to be back with Edward now. I really had no idea how long the process would take, or how aware he might be. I hated the idea of him being there, wanting comfort, and finding himself alone. The wind picked up, and my hat almost blew off, nearly exposing me to the sun. But I made it to the forest's edge, and removed my hat under the shelter of the trees and bolted the rest of the way home.

Edward was groaning and thrashing on the table, his fingers grasping the edges so hard that I was sure he would eventually destroy the table. I tried to soothe him again, explaining where I'd been, what I'd done, and why. I stroked his hair, his cheek. I didn't imagine that he could understand me yet, but I hoped that somehow he would register that he wasn't alone; that he was cared for.

I spent the next day alternating between being by his side and preparing the house for him. I cleared his room, and organized the living room so that my books were not strewn over the entire place. I was so used to being alone. No one had so much as entered one of my homes since I left Europe. I kept trying to imagine sharing the space, deciding what he would need to feel it was at least in part his, and pull myself back to the remaining portion of the room. I grew nervous too, that this effort was wasted—that he would hate me for doing this to him, and never consider this place a home. How would I have reacted if that old wraith from the London sewer had tried to befriend me? I shuddered at the thought.

How could I possibly explain this in a way that would ease his transition? I had believed in monsters when I'd been transformed; I'd recognized what I'd become, knew the danger to myself and to others. But Edward lived in a modern, apparently monster-free world. It was not going to be easy for him to accept. And it would be harder still to accept that I had not done it to be cruel—that I'd had his mother's blessing, her specific dying request, even. How would he ever believe it? He'd been completely delirious his last hours in the hospital. He would remember none of it. I'd have to tell him of the loss of his family, the loss of his humanity, the loss of his home—I was overwhelmed with the profound nature of that loss, and the fact that I'd only have myself to offer as compensation. What a miserable exchange. I was filled with sympathy for him, actually aching when I thought of his likely reaction. I also felt fear for myself. He would be devastated, and likely angry, and much, much stronger than me.

I stayed with him constantly now, trying to soothe him, noticing the change in his skin, his color, even his features as the transformation drew to a close. I could hear the change in his heart, too. His eyes were closed, but he still thrashed and clawed at the table, removing splinters from the edge. I explained to him that the pain would end soon, he would awaken soon, and that he was not alone. I tried to focus on my hope, even as my dread grew.

EPOV

Time began again. I noticed two things. First, my mind could focus on things other than pain. The pain had not abated in the slightest, but I could think around it. I could notice smells, and the feeling of wood beneath my fingers, and movement of air on my face. I could acknowledge these things, even while acknowledging that the pain was just as terrible as it had ever been. It was a relief to think about something else.

Second, there was a voice. I was not alone. I could not place the voice, though it was oddly familiar. But it was there, and it was constant. Really constant. It never stopped. It changed in tone. Sometimes it was clear, and I could feel cool breath on my cheek. Other times it sounded softer, more resonant perhaps. It was like the difference between a note played on a harpsichord, clean and sharp, and the same note on a cello, rich and melodious. But it was the same note; the same voice. I wondered at how the voice could change, welcoming the distraction, but it made little sense.

I wondered if I didn't _appear_ to be burning. Surely, if I were actually alight, the voice would not be so calm. Surely it would scream, and its owner take action. But the voice was ever calm, ever soothing, ever…worried. The voice worried a lot. It worried about me, and books, and lawyers, and my mother. The voice knew my mother. Perhaps it was a relative. Perhaps I _appeared_ to be in a coma. I'd read stories of soldiers coming home from war with brain injuries, and the doctors would have family members talk to them constantly to try to wake them up. Perhaps this voice was trying to wake me up. Perhaps people came out of comas when they were finally too annoyed to listen to the voice drone on anymore.

The harpsichord voice was soothing and encouraging. It told me that the pain was nearly over, that I wasn't alone, that I wouldn't be sick anymore. I remembered the hospital, though it was difficult—like looking through fog. I remembered light bulbs and fireflies, and music and squeaking wheels, but mostly pain. I wanted to believe the voice, believe that I wouldn't be sick anymore, that somehow this fire was burning the illness from me. The cello voice said not to worry, that things would be fine. But it was unsure. The cello voice was worried, frightened even. Frightened for me. Frightened of me. Sometimes the two voices would overlap, talking of different things, like a discordant duet. It was confusing.

Cutting suddenly through my confusion, the pain became worse again, as though all the pain throughout my body were concentrating, moving to my center, to my heart. This meant that my extremities felt reprieve: my fingers were suddenly cool and pain free, as though they'd been doused in cold, magical water. The cool water moved up my arms and legs, quenching the fire, soothing the flesh, but my mind could barely register the relief; the pain in my center was growing unbearable. I felt my core quake, even as my limbs went limp. My breath grew quick and shallow, as if extra oxygen might douse the searing flame. My heart accelerated, straining. And then failing: each heartbeat more difficult than the last. The voice was wrong. I was dying. My heart was failing, and the pain was going to win after all. I waited for it, beyond hope, beyond fear, just waiting for the pain to end.

And then it did. My heart stopped. The pain was gone. All was quiet. Almost. I could hear breathing. My own breathing. _That can't be right._ I opened my eyes, and saw a small crystal light fixture refracting light in every direction. Each minute beam of light caught dust floating and spiraling in the air. As I breathed I saw the particles swirl and dive. It was so beautiful.

Cracks on the ceiling stretched like an intricate spider web. My eyes roamed, noticing the depth of the colors, the detail, the enhanced contrast that made everything look crisp and vibrant and clear. It was as though I'd spent my entire life within a photograph, but woke now to find that I inhabited an oil painting, exquisitely created by a master, rich with detail…all of which I could see, no matter how distant.

 _Edward?_ It was the cello voice.

Suddenly I was crouching, with a table between the voice and myself. How had I done that? I can't move that fast. I scanned the room for danger, looking in the direction of the voice. I saw a man standing against the wall, wary, but beautiful. I stood, tilting my head slightly as I studied him. There was no danger. I knew him. I remembered him dimly, as being good—though I didn't remember him being this…illuminated.

"It's you," I said, and then was startled by my own voice. It was musical, lustrous. My face must have registered surprise. He smiled.

"Yes."

"The angel from the hospital," I added, suddenly aware of the light from the window being thrown into dozens of rainbows against the wall from the crystal light. It was strange how my eyes could not stay on a single object, but were constantly drawn to new things. I was so easily distracted

_I'm no angel._

"No? No, of course. Doctor. I meant doctor," I said, looking at him again. "You were with my mother."

"Yes," he said, watching me carefully. Something was wrong. He looked startled. I crouched again, looking for the danger, but found none. I abruptly realized this was not the hospital, and stood again.

"I was burning."

"Yes," he said, sorrow in his eyes.

I raised my hand to my throat. "I burn still, and my heart is still…" My eyes grew wide, and I paused briefly, trying to make sense of everything. "Is this hell?" I finally asked.

"No, Edward," he said smiling gently. "Illinois."

I shook my head, bewildered. "It's too bright to be Illinois."

"It's disorienting, I know. The new perceptions…you'll get accustomed to them. I'll help you."

"No, this must be a dream, or an afterlife. My heart is still! My afterlife is in Illinois? Is that purgatory then? It can't be heaven…where is my family? Wait..." Dim memories from the hospital flooded my mind as I squeezed my eyes shut against them. "Where _is_ my family? My father is dead, isn't he?" I looked around to find him in this strange oil-painting-of-Illinois afterlife.

"Yes, I'm so sorry. Do you remember the hospital?"

"A little," I said, as a birdsong caught my attention from the open window. I shook the distraction away. What was wrong with me? "It's all jumbled, and dark…"

_Poor boy. It will be such a shock._

"What will?" I asked, looking at him. His eyes were wide again. This was getting annoying. "What? What will be shocking?" I remembered the hospital again, and realized that my last memories were of this man talking to my mother, trying to help her, as she struggled, and then…chaos around her bed. I took in a tortured gasp. "Oh, she's gone too, isn't she? My mother?" He didn't have to say anything; I could see on his face it was true. "Oh God, no!" I wailed, covering my face. I sobbed, but I was unable to cry. Everything was wrong.

"Edward, I'm so sorry." He was at my side, his hand on my shoulder; he was trying to comfort me. As he had been while I burned, I realized now. With my eyes covered, I recognized the harpsichord voice. It had been him, trying to help me all along.

"But where are they? If I'm dead, and they're dead, why aren't I with them?"

"You're not dead."

"Look," I said, frustrated beyond control, "I'm no doctor, but I know if your heart is still, you're dead. And my heart is still. And yet I speak. And breathe. It makes no sense!" Rage was starting to overwhelm me.

_We're vampi…_

"Vampires don't exist!" I yelled, looking up as I cut him off.

He froze, stunned. And then calmly continued. "They do, actually. I've been one a very long time." He took a deep breath, steadying himself. "And now you are one too."

I stared at him. "No," I insisted.

"Your mother could tell you were dying. She asked me, begged me to save you."

"You don't think she might have been talking about medicine?" I asked sarcastically.

"She knew you were beyond that, she knew there was no other way, she wanted you to survive…like me."

And then I saw it. I saw his kind, worried face, and superimposed on it I saw my mother's haggard wan face pleading for me to be saved. _You are more than that. Save him as only you can. Promise me! Only you can save him!_ The cello voice answered I promise!

"STOP THAT!" I cried. "What are you doing? Why are you doing that?"

His face was confused. "I'm not doing anything Edward, I'm just trying to explain…"

"I don't want to see her like that! Don't make me see her!"

He shook his head, genuinely confused, and then his eyes narrowed. I covered my face with my hands, trying to block out the vision of my mother so sick, so close to death. I tried to remember her beautiful and vibrant. It seemed very important that I recall these earlier memories of her…try to wash away the memories of her from the hospital.

_Edward?_

"WHAT?" I yelled, resenting the interruption. I did not want those memories of her. I wanted the other memories: on the shore, dancing with father, smiling at me with warm, sparkling eyes. I looked at him; his eyes were still narrow.

"I'm very sorry. I know this is a big adjustment, but I'm sure we…"

"There's no 'we'," I yelled. "My family is DEAD. I should be DEAD. You stole that from me…if this is even true. How could you?" And then I saw something else in him. He'd been lonely. My mother's request had been a justification, but he'd acted from loneliness. He saw me as family, as a friend, as a son. "NO!" I cried viciously. "I had a father!" I said pushing him away. I backed away from him, toward the door. "My father is dead. And YOU…" I pointed at him accusingly. "You made me a monster!" My vision was changing again, like a veil of red had been put in front of my eyes. I snarled in frustration, overwhelmed with having yet another completely new experience when I already had lost so much of myself. "STAY AWAY FROM ME!"

I ran out the door and into the forest. The speed at which I was traveling startled me, distracting me momentarily. The red veil thinned as I found joy in the run, while simultaneously feeling all the pain of my innumerable losses. The burn in my throat, the pain in my mind, and the exultation of my limbs all propelled me forward, and away… away from him.

_Edward, NO! Stop, please! I need to help you!_

I could hear him pursuing me. I could hear the desperation in his voice. But it grew fainter as I pushed my legs to carry me faster, the forest starting to blur even in my new, ultra-accurate vision.


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: These characters remain SM's._

EPOV

Grief and anger surged through my veins. My legs beat a furious rhythm, and wind whistled and screeched past my ears. The forest flew by me. This new body was startling in its speed and power. I was distracted by the fact I wasn't tiring. I was sure I'd already run a marathon, two perhaps, and I still felt that I could drive myself forward forever. I remembered sprinting in school, my mother watching my races, so proud. I stumbled at the thought of her. She would never see me run like this. I would never see her again. The pain twisted my face and made me trip. How could she ask him to do this to me? Did she understand what she'd asked for? The vision I'd seen had been his memory; I understood that now. How did he do that? How did he project his thoughts into people? If such a thing could be trusted, it seemed my mother had truly asked for this. The doctor wasn't lying, at least. But why had she done this? Did she not understand that this would leave me to spend the rest of my existence alone? It hurt so much. Why had she done it?

I stumbled again, sobbing, and then heard his faint footfalls still trailing me. I growled at his pursuit, and pushed myself again, not knowing where I was going. My breath raked against the back of my throat. Why did it still burn? The rest of my body no longer burned. On the contrary, it felt better than it had in weeks, perhaps better than ever. If my mind weren't filled with such anguish and anger, I'd actually be enjoying this run, this feeling of power. But while the rest of the fire had faded, the fire in my throat got worse and worse. Perhaps he'd done it wrong. Perhaps I was unfinished— but it felt different from the other burn. Dry. Scorched. While the searing fires I'd known before felt almost liquid, traveling through my veins like lava, this felt like parched, desiccated soil, cracked and damaged. And it was getting worse.

The forest continued to soar behind me, and I noticed all its detail: the way the needles on the ground cushioned my feet, the hundreds of shades of green, the smell of earth and spruce, and now, something else…something wonderful. The smell pulled me in a new direction. My throat flared, and I knew…somehow I just knew that whatever that smell was, it would put out the fire in my throat. I slowed my run so I could approach the aroma stealthily. It grew stronger and stronger, and the red veil fell across my vision again, but this time it felt natural, and I welcomed it. I moved quickly and silently through the forest, moving as though the smell pulled my throat forward and I were merely following—as if pursuit of this smell were not a choice, but an imperative. The closer I got to it, the more my throat burned, but the aroma soothed the edges of the pain; it was the promise of relief.

 _Edward!_ I heard him shout in my mind and growled. And then the most sickening vision entered my mind: my mother's pale, lifeless body lying on the forest floor, her throat covered with blood.

"NO!" I screamed, knees buckling, stumbling blindly forward. The trees of the vision merged jerkily with the trees surrounding me, making me dizzy. "STOP THAT!" The vision changed. Now I looked down onto a room full of people, most of them panicked. They ran, screaming, in every direction, as other people dressed in black pounced on them, laughing, and biting their necks. It was a frenzied, horrifying vision. The people were obviously trapped; they could not escape, and they knew their fate as they watched others being killed and ripped. It was monstrous… heinous. I crumpled to the ground sobbing, trying to crawl away from the vision. I retreated on my hands until my back was against a tree and I could go no further. The vision went blank, and I could see the forest again, no red veil anymore, just as he leaped over a fallen log and crouched neatly in front of me. He grabbed my shoulders as if to restrain me, but immediately saw that I wasn't struggling, and loosened his grip. He put one hand on the back of my neck, and leaned his forehead into mine, his concern and relief palpable, radiating off him in waves.

 _Edward, Edward, Edward. I wasn't too late. Thank God I wasn't too late._ The cello voice. His thoughts, I finally realized. He was acting like he'd just rescued a comrade in arms.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO HER?" I screamed, sobbing. I couldn't catch my breath. I closed my eyes, but both visions seemed seared on the backs of my eyelids.

"Nothing, Edward, nothing. I swear!" He pulled back so he could look into my face, his hand still resting on the nape of my neck. "That vision was a lie. I promise I'll _never_ use your gift against you again…I'm sorry, but you're _so_ fast, and I had to do something to make you stop hunting. I would never hurt her, Edward. NEVER. That's not who I am. Look at me, Edward." The harpsichord voice. I finally understood his two voices. I refused to look at him; he was a fiend. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head, shaking with my sobs.

 _Edward, that's not how she died. You know that. Think of what you know. She was in the hospital; I was caring for her, trying to help her. You were aware part of the time, right at the end…I saw you lift your head. She succumbed to the flu. I can show you if you like, but I don't want to upset you further…_ It was all true, I knew it was, and yet I couldn't shake the vision. My body shook as I gasped for breath.

I opened my eyes and looked into his, pleading, wanting to believe him. "Show me," I finally choked. He sighed, brushed my hair from my face, and closed his eyes. I saw my mother, lying in the hospital bed, pale and thin, but with a peaceful face. I saw someone's hands, the nurse's maybe, cover her face with her sheet, and then the vision was gone. He opened his eyes and looked at me as I tried to steady my breathing. I believed him. I just didn't understand why he would do anything so cruel.

"Edward, I would never hurt her. I've been a doctor for over a hundred years. My calling is to help people; I don't hunt them. But _you_ were, and I had to stop you before there was more I needed to be forgiven for. That scent you were following was that of a human. Three, actually, if I smelled correctly. Two were younger, probably a mother with her children. You had turned yourself over to your instincts; if you had caught up with them, you would have killed them and drunk from them before you even knew what had happened. Edward, look at me," he said as my eyes grew wide with horror and I looked in the direction of the smell. I looked back into his eyes. "It's very important that you understand this. I made you a vampire, that's true. Your mother asked me to save you, but the act was mine and I take responsibility for it. But whether you become a _monster_ will be up to you. The instinct to hunt humans is strong, but not irresistible. I can show you a different way to live. I can show you what your mother saw in me—what she wanted for you. She did not want you to become a killer."

My sobs grew harsh again with the mention of my mother. I wiped my face with my hands, only to discover that there were no tears. That seemed impossible, considering the pain I felt.

"How can you know what she wanted? I can't believe she would have wanted me to be a vampire," I said angrily.

He sighed. "You were delirious much of the last week, but your mother was not. She was weak, and her body was failing, but her mind was lucid, and she was often awake during the night shift. I talked with her frequently, and she was amazingly perceptive and intelligent. She saw through my human façade…the first person in over a hundred years to do so. She saw that I was inhuman, and still treated me with kindness, and willingly received kindness from me. She judged me by my acts." He seemed incredulous. I remembered that too…thinking of him as an angel because he actually talked to us and smiled…the memory was faded, but true. He continued, "Your mother was a compassionate woman, Edward. She would not have asked me to change you if she thought it would make you a monster. She saw me as good. She saw that I could protect you. She asked me to promise her." I'd also seen that, in his memory.

"It was selfish of you," I accused.

"Yes," he admitted sadly. "I was granting your mother's dying wish, but my own motivations were selfish. I've…well, I've been alone a very long time." He sighed.

I looked up into the trees, still sobbing uncontrollably. "It was selfish of her, too," I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut against the pain of saying something bad about her, wishing tears would flow and wash away some of this anguish. When I looked at him again his face was full of sympathy. He released my neck, resting his hand on my shoulder for a moment, and then he rocked back so he was sitting on the ground next to me, facing me, his arms wrapped loosely over his knees. His face looked pensive.

"I never had a child, Edward, but I've watched humanity for a very long time. The desire to protect one's children is paramount. Your mother watched your father die, and others around you. She felt her own vitality slip away, and then knew the pain of watching her only son driven to delirium from the fever. Then she saw me, able to walk among the sick with no fear, able to linger, and talk, and remind her of her own humanity. She wanted that for you. She wanted to protect you from the illness that was claiming everything around her. Judge me harshly if you will, Edward, but show empathy for your mother."

I nodded and drew a jagged breath, trying again to stop crying and steady my breathing. It was no use. "She shouldn't have left me alone," I whispered.

 _You're not alone._ I glared at him. I _was_ alone. As alone as I'd ever been in my life…days, existence…whatever it should be called now. This man wanted a family, but I wanted _my_ family. He didn't understand my feelings at all.

"Was the other vision a lie too?" I asked, wiping my face again, though there was still nothing on it. His expression turned grim.

"No, unfortunately. My imagination isn't that dark." He smiled bleakly. "Those were the Volturi in Italy, who rule our kind. I've witnessed them feeding several times; it's… utterly abhorrent." He closed his eyes and shook the memory away, then looked at me seriously again. "They will hunt you and destroy you if you do not follow our laws, Edward. I understand that you do not wish to stay with me, but it is really imperative that you allow me to teach you: teach you our laws, how to control your instincts rather than be controlled by them, and how to be civilized and mix with the human world. It will not take long, compared to a human childhood."

"I have to go to vampire school?" I asked a bit sarcastically.

"No, you would just live with me and allow me to be your…"

"Don't say parent!" I snarled, my anger quickly flaring up through my pain.

"…mentor," he finished simply.

I looked up at the branches overhead again, my breaths still ragged. This was not as good as actually crying. There was no cathartic release. "How long?" I finally asked.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he thought. "Your appetite and instincts will become easier to control after about a year. It is shorter for some of us, longer for others. We will just have to see how things progress, and when we agree together that you can exhibit control, and understand how to avoid the notice of the Volturi, you will be free to go and live your own life. In the meantime, I will teach you what you need to know to get by in the world in the manner you choose, and protect you from your instincts until you have mastery over them."

My mind turned to that mother and her children. I could have destroyed them. My face twisted in horror at the thought of what I might have done, the mother already having _my_ mother's face in my imagination. I could envision pouncing on her, and having the children run and scream in terror, just like the second vision. The doctor's visions would be excellent motivation for me. I did not want to be any part of either scene. I did not ask for this; I did not want to be a monster. If the doctor…I didn't even know his name… if he could help me avoid being a monster, I had to consider staying with him, as difficult as that thought felt at the moment. "And you'll teach me how to be a vampire without killing people?" I finally asked. He smiled and I could read the relief in his mind.

"Yes, of course Edward," he said.

"Don't get any ideas, doctor. I'm not your long lost son!" I snarled, glaring at him. "I'm just smart enough to know when I'm in over my head."

"Of course," he said quickly. "And please, call me Carlisle." _Carlisle Cullen,_ I heard in his mind.

I nodded, looking down, still struggling to regain my breath and composure. The smell was much more faint, but I could still feel its draw; it disgusted me to feel that way, now that I knew what the aroma was.

"We should get started," Carlisle said, as if he could read my mind. "Your throat must be very painful."

"Yes!" I cried, amazed that he knew this. "Why is that? And how did you know?"

"You thirst," he said simply, "and I remember being a newborn, vividly." He frowned slightly. "Come," he said, standing and holding his hand out to help me up. "Let's get you away from humans, and I'll teach you to hunt."

I continued staring at him, not moving. "Hunt what?"

"Animals," he said, and I caught a vision of it in his thoughts…I was compelled and repulsed simultaneously. "Did you not eat meat in your last life?" he asked as I hesitated.

"Yes, but…"

He shrugged and held out his hand to me, eyebrow raised. When I continued to hesitate he added, "Your throat will only get worse until you feed, and it will become harder to control your instincts as you weaken. Trust me; I know this from personal experience."

I saw a flicker of pain on his face before his gentle smile curved his lips. I sighed, and reached up to grab him around the wrist. He grimaced slightly as he helped me up, but then smiled as we let go of each other. "That hurt you?" I asked, having picked up the pain in his thoughts. How did he do that?

"Newborns…new vampires…are very strong. And fast, in your case. Until we get safely from civilization, I'm going to have to ask you to slow your pace enough that I can keep up." I nodded, thinking that he kept talking about how old he was, but he didn't look much older than me. "We'll just keep on this heading," he said pointing, "until we get far enough away, and then we'll stop and I'll give you some instructions, agreed?" he asked, motioning for me to start. I nodded, and started jogging, hoping that was slow enough for him. He ran at my side, his thoughts on the scents around him, trying to make sure that there were no humans. I could sense what he smelled, and heard him identify it; then I smelled it myself and remembered the identification. It was hard to keep my pace slow. I felt emotionally exhausted, having experienced such intense and varied feelings since waking. But even with the now severe pain in my throat, running brought joy… a joy tempered only by the fact that I shouldn't run as fast as I wanted to because Carlisle, the old man as he claimed, couldn't keep up. Frustration flashed across my mind, but I beat it back, reminding myself that, as much as I didn't want to, I needed him. And anyway, I'd been taught by my parents to respect my elders. After five minutes or so he stopped.

"Let's try here. Take a minute to get a sense of your surroundings. What do you hear, and smell?" I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, and then held it so I could hear everything around me. And I really could hear _everything_ around me. It was amazing. There was a stream to the southeast, emptying into still water… a lake to the south. There were hundreds of…birds it sounded like, swimming and flying, ducks or geese I supposed. Another stream entered the lake on the west side, but this stream must have had a broad marsh associated with it…I could smell the rotten egg odor of the water-logged soil— a faint breeze came from that direction. I could hear the buzzing of millions of insects, and their footfalls too, I noticed, looking down to see a centipede near my feet. I closed my eyes again, muttering, "This is incredible." I heard Carlisle's soft chuckle. I continued to sweep from west to north and then east, hearing birds and beetles and flies, and the wind whistling through the spruce to the north. Then the wind changed, and I caught a new scent. Concentrating on it, I heard a heartbeat, and fluid pulsing through arteries. It didn't smell good to me, but that was a relief, since it meant it wasn't human…and the sound was quite compelling. I opened my eyes.

"There's something to the northwest," I said. "Maybe a deer…"

Carlisle's eyes grew wide. "Very good," he said. "How do you know what it is?"

"I heard you identify that smell while we ran," I answered, and his mouth formed a thin line. Perhaps he hadn't meant to project that thought, though it seemed harmless enough.

"I see. Well, you're right. And there are probably more than one…deer are rarely alone. How does it smell?"

"Bad," I said. He laughed. "But the sound is making my mouth water. What's funny?" My anger was flaring again. I didn't enjoy being laughed at.

"I like the smell… an artifact of personal history, I imagine. Do you want to hunt it, or try to find something else?" I considered. It really didn't smell good, but my throat was incredibly painful, and the sound was so appetizing. Which repulsed me when I thought about it, but it was still true. I grimaced.

"What do I do?" I asked finally.

"What do you want to do?"

"What I did before, with the humans, but that didn't work out so well. What if there are others near here that we can't smell right now?"

"I was monitoring for humans during our entire run; none are out here. There are no settlements for two hundred miles in any direction, and that deer isn't more than twenty-five miles away. I'm being very careful, Edward."

I sighed and nodded, still not knowing how to start. Finally, my throat decided for me, and started to pull me in the direction of the deer. I resisted, not liking the sensation of déjà vu. The last time I'd followed this imperative, it had ended in pain. I took another deep breath to steady myself. "If I start chasing a human again, you'll stop me?"

He smiled sympathetically. "How should I stop you?"

"With the Volturi. Not the…not my mother," I whispered. He nodded. I swallowed, bracing myself. "Unless I don't stop," I added.

"It won't come to that again, Edward. I'm being very careful. You can let yourself go here, give yourself over to your nature. Hunting is instinctual. Don't over-think it; I'll protect you." I looked into his face. He was confident. I made the conscious decision to trust him, and then stopped thinking consciously as I let my throat and hearing lead me to the pulsing heart. Carlisle followed a distance back, which I found comforting, but also alarming, as though I was worried he would steal my deer. The thought was distracting, and I slowed, trying to decide what to do. He stopped, giving me space. That was enough to calm whatever instinct had found his pursuit threatening, and I continued after the deer, my vision glazing red again. I crept up to the forested edge of a small clearing, and could see the deer in the middle, grazing. I watched it carefully, and though I wanted pounce on it, I couldn't see how to do it without scaring it away. It would hear me coming, and run, wouldn't it? The red haze cleared as I puzzled over the problem.

_Edward? Are you alright?_

_I don't know what to do,_ I thought back.

 _Edward! What's wrong? You've stopped hunting._ Odd. So he couldn't hear my thoughts, he could only project his own. That was interesting.

"I don't know what to do," I repeated as a whisper. The deer's ears pricked up and she looked around before starting to graze again. Carlisle was by my side in an instant.

"Do you want to watch once?" he whispered back. I nodded. He looked me in the eyes, to make sure I was paying attention. Then he looked at the deer, and the formation of the trees around the clearing. Then he ran, not toward the deer, but to a tree directly to its right. He planted a foot on the trunk of the tree and launched himself at the deer, knocking it over onto its left side while he sunk his teeth into its neck. It had happened nearly instantaneously. One moment he was standing next to me, and the next moment he was crouched over the deer's neck, drinking. I felt startled; it had been graceful, beautiful, and powerful. I could feel the heat of the blood as he stood, wiping his mouth neatly. He said, "Come drink, Edward, before it gets cold."

I approached, watching him warily, my instincts telling me it was a bad idea for two vampires to be near one open throat, but he backed away. I crouched and drank greedily. It did not taste good, but it _felt_ amazing. After several minutes, no more blood came. "What's wrong with it?" I asked.

"It's drained," he said. "I assume you're still thirsty?"

I nodded. The burn in my throat had barely dulled.

"Your turn," he said, smiling.

I closed my eyes and reached out with my senses to find new prey. "What's that scent to the east? It's not deer."

Carlisle raised his face into the breeze. "It's a cat of some kind, and it's big, from the sound of its heart."

"Will I be able to kill it?" I asked.

"You are stronger and faster than anything out here. You needn't fear your prey," he reassured.

I nodded and started following the scent. My eyes glazed red again, and I realized that when this happened, my senses were even more attuned, more focused. I reached a large rock, where the cat was lying. It had just fed, the carcass of a rabbit lying near it. I realized that I needed to get above it. Feeling power surge through my legs, I copied Carlisle's move and propelled myself off several trunks, gaining height each time, until I was on one of the lower branches. I crouched, moving along the branch until I had a clear jump to the cat, and then pounced. I landed on it and sunk my teeth into its neck effortlessly, an amazing heated elixir flowing into my mouth, but my jump carried both the cat and I along the boulder to its edge, and we started to slip to the ground below. The seal of my lips broke, and blood flowed onto its fur, making it slippery. The cat was growling and struggling, and broke free momentarily, but I pounced again, and this time, I pinned it solidly. I _was_ stronger than it. I sunk my teeth back into its neck, mourning the blood that had spilled. It tasted wonderful, and seemed to penetrate the back of my throat like a heated rain infiltrating desert sands. I shuddered with pleasure as I drank, and felt real relief, which I'd started to fear would always elude me. I drained the cat, sucking hard to get every last drop. When I stood, my mind was clear, and my throat felt warm and raw, but not painful.

Carlisle was standing nearby. "That was very good," he said encouragingly. " Do you feel better, or do you need to drink more?"

"Better," I acknowledged. I looked down and realized my shirt was covered in blood. "Ugh," I scowled. "I'm a mess! How disgusting!" Carlisle fought back a smile.

"You did very well, Edward."

I looked at his shirt; it was perfectly clean. "You're not wearing _your_ meal," I complained.

"Well to be fair, herbivores don't put up as much of a fight, and I have quite a bit more practice. Are you sure you don't want to hunt some more?"

"I'm feeling pretty full, and my throat is better."

He nodded. "Well then maybe we should head ho… to the house, and you can get cleaned up. I'll lend you some clean clothes until we can get more in your size." He'd finished the word _home_ in his mind, but was working hard to not offend me. I resented admitting it, but he really was being kind to me. I sighed, and his look became concerned. I shook my head.

"I don't think I can find it, you'd better lead the way." He nodded and started to turn toward the house. "Carlisle?"

"Yes, Edward?" he asked, turning back.

"Thank you for stopping me when I was hunting those humans. It was awful, but not as awful as it would have been if, if…"

"You're welcome," he said warmly. Then his face became serious. "And thank _you_ for allowing me to teach you." I nodded, smiling grimly, and motioned for him to lead the way. We ran together, and my limbs felt a joy that couldn't quite reach my mind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, like the rest of us, do not own the Twilight characters, and do not intend any copyright infringement.

__

 

  
CPOV

We crossed the small stream north of the house as we approached, and I bent down to collect a stone from the creek bed.

_Edward…_ I tossed the stone to him and he turned and caught it neatly, slowing to match my pace as we walked toward the house.

"What's this for?"

"A demonstration. I'd like to go over a few ground rules for the house before we go inside."

"House rules?" he asked skeptically.

"Nothing too onerous, I hope. Do you know much about geology?" He scowled, which I took to mean that he did not. "Most rocks around here are sandstone or shale, fairly soft, as rocks go. But _that_ is a piece of gneiss, probably brought down from Canada during the last glaciation. It's a metamorphic rock…quite hard."

"Fascinating." His expression belied the word.

"I'd like you to crush it." Now he looked interested.

"Crush it with what?"

"Your hand, of course." Now his expression was positively amusing. "Go on…"

He scowled again, and then his eyes grew wide as the rock was pinched to sand between his fingers. He stared at me.

"There are many things in the house that might seem as hard as rock… like the bathtub," I said, eying his shirt. "And there are other things that are much more fragile, like the faucets. Until you are used to your new strength, I ask that you take exceptional care with how you handle things… I'm an excellent surgeon, but a terrible plumber, and it would be unwise to call one in from town, if there are any… casualties among the pipes." He nodded, smirking. "Unless it's a skill _you_ were wanting to acquire…" I added.

"No, I'll try to be careful. Anything else?"

"I have many possessions throughout the house, and you are welcome to look at any of them without asking first, except for the things in the bookcase behind my desk, and the paintings in the study. They are more difficult to replace — some are actually irreplaceable — and I'd like to help you when you are looking at them, at least for now."

"Fair enough." He watched me intently as I struggled to find the proper phrasing for the last rule. "And…"

"And, I don't think you should leave the house unless I'm with you for the time being. We are not really that far out of town, and if the wind is from the south…"

He frowned, but nodded.

"We can move in a few weeks, if we find it's too difficult, but for now we need to stay nearby."

"Whatever you think," he said irritably, looking down at his shirt. Right. He wanted a bath.

"Come on then, let's get you settled in." I showed him up to the house, and let him in the front door. This was one of my more modest homes…I really didn't need much. Location was always my primary concern; my homes needed to be near a hospital, and near a hunting ground, and as isolated as possible. I suddenly wished I had settled a bit further from the northern suburbs of Chicago, but the small farm house had been perfect for _my_ needs at the time I found it…I couldn't have known it would feel close and cramped in the course of a week.

"That's the study, parlor, and dining room," I said, pointing to each of the rooms as we passed their entries, "and there's a kitchen in the back, though there's nothing much in it." I led him up the stairs. "This room is yours, and here's the only bathroom." I started the bathwater. "I'll go get you some towels and fresh clothes." I looked at him for the first time and realized that his eyes held a mixture of fear, pain and resignation behind their scowl. He was no longer angry, but he was hardly happy. He sighed and glared at me, and I left to collect the items I needed. When I returned he was sitting gingerly on the edge of the tub, very carefully adjusting the water temperature. "If you're okay for a bit, I need to run into town. I'll be back within an hour, and I'm sure you'd like a bit of privacy." _Physical and mental._ He smirked. "Please, just don't…"

"I won't leave. I'll take my bath and go explore the parlor. The books in there are okay for me to look at?"

"You are welcome to use anything in the parlor. All right. I'll be back soon." I tried to not think of my errand, but I wasn't sure I _could_ actually hide a thought from him.

"No need to rush," he called after me as I walked down the hall. Yes, we could both use a bit of mental privacy.

I checked that all the windows were closed, so no scents could tempt him outside, and then ran toward town. I tried to keep my mind focused on the scenery until I was at least a mile from the house. Based on how long it took me to stop him with my thoughts during his hunt, I surmised that was his approximate range for reading thoughts. We'd have to experiment with that later.

I slowed my pace to give myself time to absorb the implications of the day so far, and most especially of Edward's gift. It was shocking. I had, of course, wanted a companion to share my home and my time with…I had longed for it for as long as I could remember. However, I had never anticipated sharing my every thought! That sort of intimacy, after being so completely isolated for centuries, was terrifying. And suddenly I came to a brief halt at the edge of the forest, an ancient memory flooding my mind: my own father, standing by the fireplace of our home in London, saying, "Be careful what you wish for — for the Lord works in mysterious ways." He does indeed… He does indeed.

I started walking, at human speed, to the public library. What was I going to do about Edward's gift? It seemed completely involuntary, like a sixth sense. He simply heard thoughts as well as words, without trying. I imagine if he _tried_ , he'd hear even more…like paying attention in a conversation. I doubted he could help it, which would mean that though I might resent the invasion of my privacy, I would have to try to keep any resentful thoughts out of my mind in his presence if at all possible. Especially since, as my long-dead father had pointed out, I'd clearly brought it on myself. I shook my head, laughing at the irony.

And I should be grateful for his gift. Without it, I don't know how I would have stopped him from hunting, and I could hardly bear to consider the consequences of that. Three dead innocents, maybe more, before I could have stopped my… what? My creation, my son, my companion? Those deaths would have been on my conscience, blackening my soul. Edward could not be held responsible. I had been very, very careless, and very lucky that he had a gift, and I was able to discern it. I would have to talk to him before we hunted again. I did not want to exploit his gift for the purpose of control, and I'd certainly never use the false vision of his mother again, but he was much too fast for me to stop any other way if he had a head start…we'd have to negotiate something.

I finally approached my destination. The library always kept a week's supply of newspapers on hand; I knew I could review the legal notices and obituaries I'd missed during Edward's transformation. I hadn't left Edward's side for days, and needed to see how the Masens' death and estate were being reported, so I could know what to do next for Edward's inheritance. It was most critical to confirm that Edward had not been declared dead or missing. And I needed to know _exactly_ when the Masens' house would be removed from quarantine, and when the solicitors would likely descend.

A few moments with the papers afforded me all I needed to know. The Masens' obituaries were reported in today's paper, along with a sentence about their surviving son, who was currently out of the area recovering from the illness that had claimed his parents. I let out a long breath. It was perfect, exactly as I needed it. I would buy a copy of the paper on the way home, so he could keep it if he wanted.

The information on the estate was a bit more difficult to find, but it was buried there, in a list of homes going on and off quarantine. The Masens' home would be off the list in four days. I rubbed my fingers over my brow, thinking of the various risks…the risk of taking Edward, still so young, to his parents' house, versus the risk of losing the inheritance if the proper papers were not located. It would have to be his choice. I would propose the options to Edward and let him decide.

I stopped to purchase a copy of the paper, and then ran back, hoping that Edward would feel refreshed, physically and mentally. I was shocked when I entered the house. The gramophone was playing Schubert, but there were broken pieces of records all over the parlor floor, and Edward was nowhere to be seen.

_Edward?_ "Edward!"

"I'm here." And then I saw him, sitting on the floor, hugging his knees to himself and rocking. I knelt beside him and saw that his eyes were already very dark again.

"You need to hunt again."

"Is that it? I thought I was going mad. I'm sorry about your records…the music helps distract me, but they're very fragile…it took a while before I could get one set up without crushing it, especially when my throat started burning suddenly."

"They're easily replaced; think nothing of it."

"I'm glad you say that, because I ruined _all_ my favorites trying to play them first." He looked exasperated with himself. I reached for his hand…his eyes were so dark I was afraid of taking him hunting without the physical contact… I needed to be able to restrain him, and I'd promised myself not to use his gift against him if it could be helped.

"It's fine, Carlisle, let's just go." I wasn't sure which of my thoughts were 'fine', but his willingness to leave was all I really needed at the moment. I led him back across the creek, and we ran northwest. I smelled the herd as he asked, "Deer?"

"Moose," I answered. "They're bigger, which will help. You go ahead," I said releasing his hand, "we're far from civilization now." He nodded and bolted off with confidence, which left me feeling strangely proud. When I caught up with him a few minutes later, he was halfway through draining a large bull moose, and had only gotten a bit of blood on his shirt. He might even avoid a bath this time. His lips broke the seal and blood squirted across his arm.

"Don't make me laugh when I'm doing this," he growled. "Now I _do_ need a bath." He went back to feeding.

_Sorry._ I smiled as I watched him finish. He stood finally, and looked at the blood on his shirt and rolled his eyes.

"My days are going to get really boring if all I do is feed, bathe, and do laundry…"

"This won't last forever," I reassured. "You're already getting neater, and you won't need to feed so often as you get older. I can go weeks between meals and work at the hospital without a problem. And I'll try not to think anything you might find amusing while you're feeding from now on…" I added. He glared at me, but I caught the faintest hint of a smile as he shook his head.

"How often will I need to feed for now?"

"I'm not sure, but probably several times a day, depending on the size of your meals. How do you feel now?"

"Soiled, sated."

"Do you want to head back and bathe again?"

"I suppose. Do you need to leave again?" I shook my head. "Good. I have some questions."

"I don't doubt it." He started walking back, and I matched his pace. He seemed to have no trouble finding his way back this time.

"I can follow our trails back directly now," he answered my question without my voicing it. "And I've spent enough time in the house now, I remember what it smells like this time. Why do you keep calling it _my_ gift? I'm not the one projecting thoughts."

That startled me. He thought this was _my_ doing? "Edward, I'm not projecting anything. I'm just thinking. You can somehow hear it."

He stopped and stared at me, his face searching mine…no doubt his thoughts searching mine as well. "But when I was hunting, you called my name."

"Yes, it seems I can think your name and get your attention, but you were plucking thoughts from my head long before I had the desire to share any with you. Think of it like hearing. You can be hearing things all around you, but not _listening_ to them. When I thought your name, you were distracted with your hunt. I'd been thinking of that image for several moments before I got your attention. I'm sorry," I added as he winced. I made sure that my mind was full of the trees around us. "You were distracted, so I thought your name so you would 'listen', just as I would have done if I were talking and you weren't paying attention. I wasn't projecting the thought into your mind; I just got your attention so you would pull it from mine."

"How do you know, how do you know it's me and not you?" He started walking toward the house again.

"Like I said, you took many thoughts before I knew you could. And if I were able to project thoughts, surely you wouldn't be the first person to hear them…it must be you."

"Is that common? Among vampires, I mean. I know you can't hear my thoughts…I tried answering you and you clearly didn't hear me, but what about others?"

"It's not common. Any gift at all is rare, and mind reading is extremely rare. I know of only one other, and he needs to touch in order to read. However once he's touched you, he can see any thought you've ever had, and every memory; you are a completely open book before him. It's very unsettling."

Edward read my discomfort. "I don't think that's how mine works. I think I only hear what you are thinking at a given moment… I still don't know anything about you from before we met, unless you've thought about it in my presence, like that vision of the Volturi." He shuddered slightly and looked at me. "It's hard for you, that I can hear your thoughts."

I sighed. _No. Not able to hide a thought…_

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No, I'm sorry, Edward. It _is_ hard for me. It was going to be a challenge to share my home after so many years alone, but I'm happy to do it. Ecstatic really, which I'm sure is hard for you. I'm sure my… eagerness… is difficult to take in your present state, especially since you seem to be bombarded with it through my thoughts." He winced again. "This is more intimacy than I expected, and more than I'm comfortable with, but I do not resent you for it."

"Yes you do."

"No. I'm just going to have to adjust to the lack of privacy, and I've been a very private man for a very long time…too private, for too long. I suppose I'm making up for lost time," I said with a small smile. "Really, Edward. You cannot help it, and I cannot fault you. I just ask that you consider the fact that I can't help my thoughts any more than you can help hearing them, and try not to judge me too harshly for them."

He walked in silence, considering my words.

"Why do you keep thinking about my parents' house?"

I laughed, realizing, for once and for all, how little choice I had in sharing any plans with Edward.

"I'm trying to secure your inheritance for you. I arranged the notes on the hospital records so it appeared that you were released after your parents' death. I left today to confirm that the public obituary read that way. And I needed to see when your family home would go off the quarantine list. I will do everything in my power to secure the entire estate for you, but we need some documents, and it might be prudent for you to take some keepsakes now, in case we are unsuccessful…"

"You want me to visit the house? But, it will be surrounded by humans!"

"Well, we could go in the middle of the night, right after a hunt. It's unlikely we'd see any humans, and if you could just manage to not breathe, we could probably make it there and back without incident."

"Probably? I don't know, Carlisle, that sounds like a huge risk."

"It is. I won't deny it. And we might be able to secure your inheritance without the trip. I could forge documents easily, but if the real ones were to show up in a safe deposit box or in the house, it could make our claims tenuous… The choice has to be yours, Edward. We can go together to the house, taking all the precautions we can, or you can just send me, and I can do my best. But either way, I think it's best if we visit the house and try to find the documents. Did you father have a safe deposit box?"

"No, he had a safe in his study. I don't think I can remember the combination," he said as he struggled with his memories.

"That's not unusual," I said gently. "Our human memories fade as we leave that life behind. If you think about your parents often in your first several months, you'll be able to retain more of the memories. I wasn't aware of that until late in this life, and consequently have very few recollections of my human life." He nodded. "However, you shouldn't worry about that particular memory. We are vampires, with excellent hearing and dexterity. Cracking a safe combination will _not_ be an issue."

His face broke into a grin, and he shook his head. "I suppose it all has to be good for something," he laughed. His smile faded. "Would we have to go tonight?"

"No, I think that would be unwise. The house goes off quarantine in four days, so we can go Thursday, when the whole neighborhood is sleeping. That would give you several more hunts. We could even practice skirting the neighborhood the night before just to see how you handle it. Or we can drop the whole thing, though I don't recommend that. This is your estate, your inheritance; I'll do whatever you want in this regard. I'm just trying to keep your options open for you.

"But, I don't understand; how can I inherit when I'm dead?"

"You're not dead, Edward, we've been over this before. Do you know Mr. Campbell? He's listed as a contact in your parents' medical records for issues pertaining to payments. Is he the executor of the estate?

"Probably… He's a lawyer like my father, but specializes in property law I think."

"Does he know you well?"

"I haven't seen him for years. He's a business associate of my parents, but not really a friend. Still, I think he'd notice red eyes." He looked sideways at me.

_You saw that when you were alone? I'm sorry._

"When I was getting ready for my bath, I looked in the mirror. That was shocking."

_I'm sorry, I should have warned you._

"You were busy." He paused, focusing on his long strides that were carrying us to the house much faster than expected. "It brought the whole vampire thing home, though. Why don't I look like you?" His voice sounded almost hurt.

"You do, other than your eyes. They'll fade to gold over several months of a diet of animal blood. Vampires who feed on humans retain the crimson eyes."

"Like the Volturi in the vision."

"Yes, like most of our kind, actually. I agree that we can't have a meeting with any solicitors until your eyes fade, but we can take care of preliminaries by mail."

"Have _you_ ever tasted human blood?"

"Only once," I said, and before I could help it the memory of Edward's transformation flashed in my mind. I quickly attempted to purge it, think of something else, but it was too late. He froze.

"It was me?" he whispered. He'd seen the bite that caused his own transformation _through my eyes_. How could he forgive me for that? No one should have to see that. I braced myself for his fury.

"Oh, GOD, I tasted _good_!" He swayed, and then his knees crumpled. I knelt by him, taking his face between my hands.

_Edward! Edward…_

"I tasted good," he said, intensely, looking into my eyes. His hands had come up to clutch at my arms.

_Yes,_ I admitted. There was no point trying to hide it from him.

"Carlisle, how did you _stop_?" he asked incredulously. He was viewing this as a vampire? Not as a victim? Not as _himself_?

_With great difficulty._ The memory flashed again: the two superimposed faces that had passed through my mind as I drank from Edward. The two faces that had allowed me to pull away from his open throat. The first face was full of hope and passion; the second was full of fire and death.

"Who was that?"

"Your mother," I answered, knowing he was referring to the faces in the vision. I cursed myself that he had to see this. His gift was cruel.

"I know that one," he spat impatiently. Right. Of course he knew that one.

"Aro," I answered, naming the second face. "One of the Volturi…a friend, in some respects. Cultured, civilized, knowledgeable, always curious…but you've seen his dining habits." I shuddered. "He is everything I fear I could become, if I were to succumb to the siren song of human blood. Superimposed with your mother, it was all my fear and all my hope..."

"And that's what allowed you to release me? You didn't want to be like him?"

I nodded. "And I wanted to be worthy of your mother's faith in me." He took several steadying breaths. His eyes bore into mine, his mind into mine, and then he released my arms and sat back against a tree for a moment, shuddering with emotion.

_I'm sorry you had to see that._

He waved an arm and shook his head, then ran his hands through his hair. He was still absorbing it, still coming to grips with what must be very conflicting emotions… seeing it from my perspective, knowing my motivations…all of them, no doubt… but also seeing one of the Volturi and knowing that if I had been like them, he'd already have killed. He would already be a monster. And through the whole vision he could see his own body starting to twitch in the background… taste the flavor of _his own blood_! It wasn't right.

"No one should have to see that."

He laughed derisively. "Well, my _gift,_ as you call it, has a dark side. It's also my curse. One of my many new curses." I flinched at that, and he looked at me, not quite apologetically, but less accusatorily than I would have expected.

"It's fine, Carlisle. I understand now."

_What do you understand?_

He shook his head. He sat a few more moments, running his hands through his hair and crushing his palms into his forehead while I studied him. He slowly relaxed, and then cringed when he saw the blood on his shirt again. He got up and started slowly moving toward the house again.

"I'm still trying to comprehend why you're doing this… about the estate," he clarified, realizing I was still braced for some sort of onslaught for changing him, or making him see his own change. "I'll never be able to live in that house. Why bother inheriting it?" he asked wistfully.

My thoughts softened as I heard the pain in his voice. "You can't live there anytime soon, that's true, but you might be able to live there someday. And you certainly have more right to the possessions within the home than your distant relatives, who would likely not treasure them as you would." His face became hard and his eyes flashed. "So you see my motivation. Also, the way we live, it is nice to have some wealth at your disposal. I'm happy to share with you, but if you ever chose to leave me, you would need your own resources, and your youthful appearance will make it harder for you in certain professions. As you can see, there are many advantages to securing the estate." He nodded thoughtfully. "I could try to go alone, but you are going to have a much better idea of where the papers are likely located, and also, what items you value enough to take now. Once the quarantine has been lifted, someone is going to come and catalog the estate…if you want to remove anything, it would be best to do it before that happened."

He nodded again, slowly. "What did you mean about not breathing?"

"We don't need oxygen. You don't _need_ to breathe, but it facilitates your sense of smell… a very important sense for us. So not breathing is uncomfortable, but hardly impossible. I've held my breath for hours, even as a newborn." He looked skeptical. "Try it," I encouraged.

He gave me a curious look, and then took a deep breath and held it. We walked the rest of the way to the house, went upstairs, and he started the bath again, making eye contact with me to show that he was being careful.

_Is it uncomfortable, not breathing?_ He shrugged. _I'll get you more clean clothes. Then after your bath, I have some things to show you._ He nodded, and I realized that we would be able to communicate just fine if he decided to go to the house, as long as I remembered to use yes and no questions. He smiled slightly at my realization.

I returned a few moments later with the clothes and towels, and told him I'd be downstairs when he was done. I cleaned up the mess in the parlor, noting that the favorite records he'd broken consisted of three by Chopin, two by Bach, a Vivaldi and a Debussy. Easily replaced. I selected another Bach concerto to listen to during his bath, and when he came down a half hour later in clean clothes and damp hair, his expression was much more relaxed. He actually smiled at me as he exhaled.

_You held that breath all that time?_

"Yes, and it was easier than I thought it would be. That's good to know, for hunting."

"Well, you're young enough that once you've tasted the scent of human blood on the air, you might not have the willpower to hold your breath, but it is certainly something to try."

"What did you want to show me?"

"There on the table," I said, and continued reading my book so he'd have the illusion of privacy while looking through his meager possessions. I heard him gasp as he recognized his mother's ring. He sat slowly on the sofa, and fingered the ring delicately, caressing it, and slipping it onto the top of his finger. Then his hands clenched he buried his face in his fists, desperately fighting for some kind of control.

_Be careful not to crush it,_ I reminded him. He nodded and set the ring gently back on the table, covering his face with his hands once more. I ached as I watched his suffering, not knowing whether to approach him, or give him more privacy… hoping that my silent vigil with him would be comforting rather than awkward. After a long moment, he picked up the cigarette case and opened it. To my surprise, several pictures fell onto the table. He picked them up with such care and love it was heartbreaking to watch.

"He gave up smoking several years ago. He continued to carry it so he'd have a safe place to hold these photos, and because everyone he knew still carried little silver boxes like this." He smiled affectionately at the memory, and I smiled too. "He still wanted to be like the rest of them. I think my mother gave him the box for one of their anniversaries." He picked up his father's ring, and rolled it around in his fingers. He flinched when it made a soft _clink_ as he dropped it into his other hand, and the heirloom of his human life met with his vampire skin. "Where did you get these?"

"Those three items were at the hospital… the only possessions your parents had with them. I made sure to collect them before we left. The newspaper I bought today." He nodded and picked it up. He read the obituary several times, gliding his fingers over the text. Then he picked the pictures up again. His brow furrowed as he studied them. He placed them back in the silver box, and turned it slightly, watching how the light moved across the imperfections of the silver plate.

"I want to go to the house, Carlisle," he said softly after a few moments. "You're right; I want my parents' things…some of them at least. Thanks for getting all of this…" he held up the box. "It means a lot to me."

"We'll get the rest, Edward. If it's what you want, we'll make it happen. Let's get a few more hunting trips under your belt, and then we'll attempt it." He continued to study the silver box, turning over in his hands as he thought.

"Carlisle?" he asked quietly.

"Yes Edward?"

He sighed. "Would you teach me how to do laundry?"

I smiled and put my book down. "Follow me."  
  
  
 _A bit of media for this chapter:_  
  
[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/55449539@N08/7828944860/)  
 _Carlisle's gramophone, circa 1912, when he first moved to Chicago._  
  
  
[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/55449539@N08/7828945168/)[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/55449539@N08/7828945664/)  
A 78 rpm gramophone recording of Chopin's 24 Preludes of Opus 28, all 8 records of them.  
  
 _Thank you for reading._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: These are SM's characters. I'm just playing.

_The music for this chapter can be found on_ _the[web playlist](http://grooveshark.com/#%21/playlist/Prelude+In+C+By+ATONAU/60866524) (thanks NixHaw!)._

 

* * *

  


CPOV

In my many years since leaving the Volturi, I'd wandered across Europe and North America. I'd always lived alone. My days were usually filled with friendly acquaintances and suspicious strangers, but at home, where no other being could join me, my most consistent companion had been Solitude.

She was, as a general rule, unpleasant company.

She would slip into the room, unbidden, when I was not expecting her. Or at least I told myself she was unexpected… that my mind was occupied with reading, or my own thoughts, that I was not wanting company. But I was lying to myself; I always expected her… dreaded her, and expected her. She would come in as I read on one end of the sofa, and would sit on the other end… I could almost feel the shift in the cushions. I would move to the chair, and she would stand by the bookcase across the room, so that if my eyes raised up above the edge of the page I read, I would see her fleeting shadow. The harder I tried to concentrate on my reading, and _not_ look up, the firmer her ghostlike appearance became.

Implicit in her presence was judgment: _If you were worthy of better company,_ she would whisper in my mind, _you would have it._

Solitude was a cruel, if loyal, companion.

I'd developed habits that helped keep her at bay… kept her cruel thoughts from accusing me in the night. I would stroke the edge of the cover of the book while I read, the gentle, rhythmic sound giving the illusion that someone else was in the room; that I wasn't alone. I would build a fire, the warmth and smell and crackling sounds reminding me of vague memories of my home in London… memories vague enough to feel almost pleasant. The gramophone had been a marvelous invention… it had kept her at bay for months. Each night, a new concert played in the parlor, and I was rapt, surrounded by unseen musicians who possessed sensitivity and grace. I was in the audience, and could almost hear the breathing and soft murmurs of those around me. But eventually I realized that the only other member of the audience was she. The scratches on the records made the music sound hollow, and the gramophone remained silent after that.

In an attempt to flee her, I would read outside by the light of the moon, so I could be surrounded by the noises of the forest. But the crickets, it seemed, were Solitude's allies, and their song would make me lonelier and depressed. I started working the night shifts of the hospitals I served. This had been wonderful… I never had to miss work to avoid the sun, and if the day were rainy or overcast, I could go immediately to the shelter or free clinic to volunteer. There were days when I'd only spend a mere hour at home, bathing and changing before my next shift. I would wave to Solitude as I left the house again, smug that she had not had a chance to deflate me with her thoughts. But her stare would cut through me. _You cannot hide from me,_ she would silently say. And she would be right. Eventually, I would slow my frantic pace, wearily sitting on my sofa, and I would feel the cushions shift next to me again.

There was no comfort in her presence. There was no warm touch. No acceptance. She knew me, of course, but judged harshly. Solitude refused to see any value in my pursuits. She refused to join in conversation, bored with my thoughts, but not enough, apparently, to leave them to myself. She mocked my philosophy, and scorned my morals. Like Aro. She was much like Aro… less kind, actually. Aro, at least, had never been bored.

Aro was the only being who had ever _truly_ seen me. I remembered the first time he had taken my hand and I felt the invasion of his mind as he sifted through mine, uncovering every awful memory, sharing it with me, and then discarding it. He'd been like a rough lover: intrusive, uncaring, seeking only his own satisfaction. In the end I'd felt exposed and fragile, but still the intimacy had been thrilling, and had forged a bond. If Aro had approved of what he'd found in me, I might be in Italy still, despite my revulsion. But he had not. I was a puzzle to him, a curiosity, and at times an abomination. He mocked my philosophy and scorned my morals, but always with a slight gleam in his eye and twitch on his lips. That is why I'd stayed as long as I had… in hopes that Aro would approve all he saw, if only he looked enough times. I'd returned to his rough ministrations repeatedly seeking some sort of sanction, only to realize in time that I was looking for absolution from the wrong source. Only God could offer it, and He was very, very quiet most nights. Aro could never find value in me, and eventually the intimacy was a burden, not a thrill. So I left.

And now there was Edward, shuffling across the floor upstairs. Solitude had left the moment I'd carried Edward through the door, though I still saw her faintly sometimes, standing over his shoulder as he glared at me for some stray thought he found offensive. She was waiting, in case he left. But so far, he'd stayed.

Edward also read my mind, though I never felt him sifting through it the way Aro had. I never felt invaded or laid bare. His gift was more subtle, and much easier to take. I was embarrassed, of course, that he had to see the parts of me I wished to hide, but a part of me was also secretly… well actually, not so secretly… thrilled that the intimacy was foisted upon me. It was terrifying and thrilling and left me wondering if Edward would approve me, at least in part… I could be satisfied if at least he approved some small part, found some small value. And though it made me feel vulnerable and slightly pathetic to be looking for validation from a seventeen-year-old child — I, who had seen more of the world than he could dream of — it was true, nonetheless.

Edward, of course, had also lost Solitude since sharing a home with me. He seemed to miss her more. He'd like to be alone with his thoughts so he could mourn his parents properly, without my hopeful ponderings intruding his mind. He probably felt something similar to what I'd felt with Aro. I'd been invaded by an indifferent mind that stole my most private thoughts; he was invaded, having _my_ most private thoughts thrust upon him. Where I'd been embarrassed by Aro's intrusion, Edward no doubt felt annoyance at being constantly bombarded with my musings. But there was an important difference. Aro had willfully taken my thoughts. I'd had little choice in the matter, but he had. As I became less pleased by the intimacy, I resented his infringement on my mind. But my current situation was different. My thoughts were unconscious, and Edward took them unconsciously… against his will, even. It made us both more willing to forgive the other, despite the annoyance.

And that Edward was annoyed I had little doubt. I would sit in my study, reading medical journals, and I would suddenly be overwhelmed with joy at just hearing his footfalls as he paced in his room, and suddenly they would stop. _Sorry,_ I would think, and try to read. He'd sigh, and walk across the room to sit in his chair. I'd hold my breath to listen for his, but as I heard it, his breath would stop too, and then he'd sigh and start pacing again. I knew that my attention to his presence irritated him, but I simply _couldn't help_ listening for him. It was such an odd and exhilarating feeling, to have a _person_ in my home. I tried to give him privacy, physically at least. I played music on the gramophone to cover the sounds of his movements, but then caught myself straining to hear them. I stayed in my study so that he could explore the rest of the house freely, and kept my door open, in case he sought my company. I tried to give him mental privacy as well, reading often to occupy my mind… but thoughts of his presence would enter my mind, and he'd always immediately react to them. He was particularly annoyed if I ever thought a possessive pronoun… _my_ companion, _my_ creation, _my_ dear boy, _my_ son… these thoughts, no matter how fleeting, enraged him. He would stomp across his floor and slam the door, opening it first, if necessary. Once the ' _my'_ hadn't even fully formed in my mind and I heard him hiss from the kitchen where he laundered his shirt. I tried to avoid these thoughts, but it was impossible. I could only apologize. _Sorry_ became my most frequent mental word.

And I couldn't blame him for his reactions, any more than I could blame myself for my thoughts. Of course my possessive thoughts were inappropriate. He was not my son, not yet ( _hiss_ ). I had changed him, but that did not make him my creation ( _hiss_ ). He was his own, as I was my own. But we _were_ connected in some way… and to that thought he didn't react.

Though I kept my distance out of respect, to give him time to adjust, he would come to me sometimes.

"Carlisle, there's no bed in my room."

"Do you feel tired?"

"Exhausted."

"Could you sleep?"

"Oh, we don't sleep," he said, taking the information from my mind. He turned from the door of my study and walked into the parlor, carefully turning over the record on the gramophone, and then laying on the sofa, closing his eyes and listening.

A few hours later I heard him whisper, "Carlisle?"

"Hmmm?"

"I need to hunt."

And so it continued during his first days. His hunting got better, his bathing became less frequent, and he insisted on doing both our laundry, to make up for the fact that he'd broken my records. I left him for brief periods every day, to take care of errands, and give him some real privacy. The first time I bought new music, replacing the records he'd broken and buying dozens of new albums in various musical styles.

When I returned home, Edward was up in his room. I placed one of the Chopin albums that he had claimed as a favorite on the gramophone, and sat on the sofa as I sorted the other records into piles according to genre.

"What's all that?" he asked from the doorway. I looked up as I organized my purchases.

"Well, now that we are playing so much music, I was thinking my selection seemed a bit sparse. So I picked up a few new things: Bartok, more Bach, Debussy. But I thought I'd pick up some other genres: Irving Berlin, Al Jolson, Dixieland Jazz Band…" I continued, reading the labels. "Henry Creamer… I've never even heard of him. I thought we might like some variety," I said, smiling up at him. Edward sat with me and helped sort the records, reading over labels.

"Do you like jazz?" Edward asked.

"Hmmm? Oh, some, I suppose. I haven't listened to much of it, I admit, but one of the doctors in my last hospital favored ragtime, and he'd play it in his office sometimes… I became rather fond of it," I said as I continued to sort. Edward shook his head, chuckling.

"Well, I think you'll like this one, then," he said, changing the record.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Frankie and Johnny." We listened to it for a while, and he asked, "What do you think?"

"Actually, I think Dr. Horrigan had this one," I said smiling. He grinned at me and bobbed his head in time to the music. We listened to the albums for hours, enjoying the variety and tentatively enjoying each other's company. At one point, Edward put on an album neither of us was familiar with. We sat and listened to a series of falsetto love ballads. I tried to keep an open mind, but they were dreadful.

"Yes, they are," Edward laughed. "Allow me to change the record; I should really practice controlling my strength… oops." He'd purposely crushed the record, and we laughed as it splintered into dozens of pieces. I cleaned the pieces up as he put on a Debussy… without causing any damage… and then we stacked the records in the bookshelf. When we were finished we each went back to reading, but for the first time, he stayed in the parlor with me.

The next day I brought home two large backpacks, and some clothes that would fit him better than the items in my wardrobe… he was thinner than I was, though not by much… and he needed his own things. I brought home newspapers when I went out, but it was painful to read about the ongoing epidemic, knowing I was powerless to help fight it.

I sat in my study later that afternoon when I looked up to see Edward standing in the doorway.

"What are you reading?" he asked.

"The Odyssey."

"In Greek?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"It sounds nice… it's peaceful…I can hear the sounds you're thinking, but I can't understand it… it's… really soothing."

"I'll have to read something in Portuguese later…or maybe Welsh…they're both melodic languages…much more so than Greek."

"How many languages do you speak?"

"I only speak eight or so, but I can read… fourteen or fifteen, it depends on how you count some of the dialects of the ancient languages." He looked as though he were about to ask more questions but the needle on the gramophone broke, and he moved to the parlor to replace it.

After the evening hunting trip, during which he'd not only felled two does without getting blood on himself, but he had actually avoided getting _dirt_ on himself as well, I broached the subject of approaching a neighborhood.

"Hold your breath now, and take my hand. I'll lead you near the edge of town, where the scent of humans is noticeable, and then arc back to the house. After that we can decide if it's worth risking a trip to your parents' house." He contemplated for a moment, and then took a deep breath and held it, and motioned for me to lead.

_I'd rather have physical contact, in case something goes wrong and I need to restrain you._

He rolled his eyes, but then held out his hand for mine and we started to run. I led him to the edge of the forest, and then beyond, within sight of the first line of houses. I slowed our pace, and studied his face.

 _Everything all right?_ He nodded. We continued closer to the homes, which were sparsely spaced along the street, and then headed back into the forest and to the house. He didn't exhale until the front door closed behind us.

"That was easy," he said. "Let's go now."

"I thought we'd wait until tomorrow night."

"Why? I just fed, it's two in the morning, and we have the packs ready… why wait?"

I gauged his expression, trying to see if he was hiding any motivations from me. He rolled his eyes at me.

"Carlisle, if we do it tonight, then we're done. But if we have to abort tonight, because there's an issue we haven't thought of, we'll have another shot tomorrow night, right? This makes sense."

"You're right, of course. Okay, no rest for the wicked." We retrieved the empty packs from the kitchen.

"You're not seriously considering tethering me to you, are you?" he asked, commenting on an errant thought.

"No, not really," I laughed. "It's tempting! I feel like we need more contingencies worked out, but there's nothing I could use to tether you to me that you couldn't break or use against me as a weapon, so I think it would be counterproductive."

"Well, there's always the usual Plan B. Just send me some really horrific image and I fall to my knees, right?"

I studied his face and was surprised to find no trace of sarcasm. He was perfectly serious.

"I actually don't know if that will work again, now that you're prepared for it. And I don't think I should use visions of your mother again… I did that out of complete desperation."

"And you would feel less desperate if I were set loose in the middle of a neighborhood?"

"Well, no…"

"Exactly. Neither one of us wants me to attack a human. I'll do my best not to breathe, but if I do, and I somehow get away from you, you should absolutely try to stop me with any means possible, including… mental bombardment, for lack of a better word. I expect you to do that, Carlisle, do you understand? From what you've said, you have enough material just from your years with the Volturi to keep me on my knees for a week."

"Perhaps. Those decades do provide a wealth of horror. All right, if you insist, that will be Plan B… let's hope we don't have to use it. As long as you hold your breath, and we don't see any humans, you should be able to control your instincts."

"Do you know how to get to my house?" he asked suddenly.

It was my turn to roll my eyes, in what I hoped was an apt imitation of him. "Let's go," I said, holding out my hand. He took deep breath, took my hand and we left the house again. We ran southeast this time, until the trees gave way to a small lane that headed south into Evanston. We paused at the edge of the trees and I studied his face.

 _Are you feeling all right? May we continue?_ He nodded. I adjusted my grip on his hand and drew him closer, locking our elbows together. We were now shoulder to shoulder, and I'd know the instant his direction veered from mine. We began moving down the street, slowly and steadily. The houses were sparse at first, but grew tighter as we entered a posh neighborhood of three story brownstones.

 _Don't breathe, Edward. You're doing really well. We just have a few more blocks._ I continued these silent encouragements as we moved deliberately though the street, and Edward matched me step for step until suddenly — he didn't. He stiffened and froze and I turned quickly to look into his face, shocked to see his eyes wide and sightless. I stepped in front of him and placed my free hand on the nape of his neck trying to direct his eyes to mine.

_Edward! Edward! What's wrong? Look at me Edward! Now! Look at me now!_

Finally his eyes found mine, and though it seemed impossible they widened further. His eyes were pleading, and he reached up with his free hand and grasped my arm, hanging on as though he were drowning.

 _What is it, Edward? Did you take a breath? Can you smell something?_ He shook his head violently. I looked around us, but saw no signs of life, human or otherwise. _Did you see something?_ He shook his head again, whimpering, but clinging to my eyes. _I don't understand, Edward. Can you move with me?_ His features grew pained and his eyes unfocused again, but I could see they were not darker. Whatever the problem was, he wasn't suffering bloodlust. _Edward!_ I shouted in my mind again; his eyes found mine, and then he closed them, collecting himself.

With great deliberation he opened them again, stared intently into my eyes, and whispered, "Carlisle, there are voices _EVERYWHERE_." And he snapped his mouth tight.

 _What? There are no voices…_ I looked around at the gloomy street and scattered gas lamps; no one was even out, much less talking. I glanced at the dozens of darkened houses, their inhabitants asleep and likely… my gaze snapped back to his.

 _You can hear their dreams? All of them at once?_ He nodded, whimpering again.

"Oh my dear boy," I whispered, before I could think better of it. I caught myself and cautiously looked back at his face to see if he were angry… it was the type of sentiment that usually infuriated him. But he was still a drowning man… drowning in a sea of subconscious and likely surreal thoughts, a cacophony of images, his eyes clinging to my face as his hand clung to my arm, as though I alone could keep him afloat.

 _What can I do? What can I do?_ My eyes wandered the street helplessly, and then I had a thought. I looked back into his eyes. _Edward? I am the closest. Am I also the loudest?_ He nodded. Okay, maybe I could drown out the other thoughts with my own… something compelling, but not so distracting that we couldn't communicate. I settled on the memory of a concert. _Edward, watch this…_

I started the memory with the beginning of the Concerto in A, and just let it play. I let the music and the sight of the maestro at his piano fill my mind. I felt Edward viscerally relax next to me.

 _Better?_ He nodded. _Shall we go back home, or do you want to carry on to your parents' house?_ He glared at me. Right, yes or no questions. _Do you want to go home?_ He shook his head. It was a risk, but he'd handled the panic well, and we were so close at this point, it seemed a pity to make his suffering part of a wasted effort. _All right, let's carry on then._

I released his neck and went to his side again, his arm still linked with mine. His steps were staggering, but with my help, he was able to move forward. We finally reached his childhood home, and he led me through a gate and into the back yard. He went to a set of French doors and tried them. They were locked, of course, and I pointed at one of the upstairs windows. _It might not be locked._

He shook his head, and moved over to an ornate fountain, reached behind a stone cherub, and produced a key. Smiling slightly through pursed lips, he unlocked the French door, let us both in, and then closed it behind us.

 _Don't breathe yet; let me taste the air for a minute._ He nodded, and I sampled the stale air. There was almost no scent of humans; all that lingered was a faint sickly smell. No one had been in the house for weeks.

"Okay, it smells safe to me. Start with a shallow breath." He grasped my arm more tightly and looked into my eyes intently as he sucked in a small sample of air; he exhaled and took in a deeper one. Finally he relaxed and I let go of him.

"Well, that was interesting," he said. He was gasping for air, as though he were a human that had held his breath too long. I was suddenly amazed and grateful that he'd managed to hold his breath through his panic. His control was startling. He shed his pack and sat on the parlor sofa, leaned his elbows onto his knees and put his face in his hands, taking deep breaths to steady himself.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, the voices are fainter now that I have my own private concert," he said, tapping the side of his head. "Humans have insane dreams… _they_ probably won't even recall them when they awaken, but I'll remember them all juxtaposed into some sort of crazy mental mosaic." Pain and frustration colored his voice. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the images. "I'm really glad you thought of something to drown it out; I was starting to lose myself."

"That's what it looked like. I'm glad it helped." I sat next to him, patiently waiting until he was ready to continue our business in the house. He made no move to get up, continuing to breathe deeply trying to calm down. After several minutes, he ran his hands through his hair a final time and leaned back into the sofa, his muscles finally unclenched and his breathing almost normal. He slowly began taking in his surroundings.

"Carlisle, why is everyone in your concert dressed so strangely? Was it a costume ball?"

"No," I chuckled. "It was 1782, Vienna."

His gawked at me. "Wait, that's not… that's not _actually_ Mozart playing, is it?"

I smiled at his incredulity. "Yes, it was the debut of that piece, I believe. When Mozart returned from France, his popularity was waning, at least until he started writing his operas a few years later… It was actually quite easy to get tickets.

He continued to stare at me, eyes searching my face. "Carlisle, how _old_ are you?"

I laughed quietly again. "Rather old," I admitted. "I'll tell you all about my life, if you're interested, but it's a story best told in my study, with my paintings and books. Right now we need to find your father's study…"

"Of course," he said, refocusing himself on our purpose there. He took a deep breath and braced his hands on his knees to stand, as though it took great effort. He looked around the room wistfully. Sighing, he said, "Follow me."

 

* * *

_AN: Thanks to my beta, Coleen561._

Music for this chapter can be found in the [web playlist](http://grooveshark.com/#%21/playlist/Prelude+In+C+By+ATONAU/60866524), or the links below:

[Frankie and Johnny](http://www.tradebit.com/usr/musicforpianos/pub/9003/Sample-Frankie-and-Johnny--Traditional.mp3)

Record that gets broken (sorry, this is actually a download of [All The World Will Be Jealous of Me](http://www.besmark.com/pop13209.m3u) performed by Charles Harrison, not a stream)

Debussy record played - [Debussy's Arabesque](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yh36PaE-Pf0)

Mozart concert circa Vienna 1782 that Carlisle plays in his mind to help Edward - K.414 1782 Vienna Piano Concerto No. 12, in A: [First Movement](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mi7g3fWqELk), [Second Movement](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ALeCjl70m58&feature=related), [Third Movement](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nfdI6zlL65A&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: These are SM's characters. I'm just playing.

_The music for this chapter can be found on_ _the[web playlist](http://grooveshark.com/#%21/playlist/Prelude+In+C+By+ATONAU/60866524) (thanks NixHaw!)._

* * *

  
[ ](http://atonau-pic.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/281/684)   


 

  
EPOV

For the first time since my heart stopped beating, I felt like a ghost.

I was home, in the house I'd spent my entire life. The one place I'd always felt comfortable, confident, and loved. The one place I knew absolutely. I'd been looking forward to being here ever since Carlisle first mentioned the need to come to the house. I longed to see my home again, though I felt some trepidation at the idea of being so near humans, and oddly, felt some strange worry about the trip. But still, I _wanted_ to come. I wanted to regain that feeling of ease I'd known in this home, before my life, as it were, had been turned on its edge and left me reeling. I wanted to feel comfortable, confident, and loved again. I wanted the sands to stop shifting beneath my feet. I wanted to be surrounded by the absolutely familiar, to be practically _bored_ by the familiarity of having everything in its place. Maybe here I could have just one clear thought in my head at a time. Happiness was a distant dream, but if I could achieve calm comfort, it would be enough. If I could be somewhere I knew, close my eyes, and feel comfortable for just a few minutes, perhaps I could find the strength to face this mystifying new existence.

Now I was here, in this house that _ought_ to be the most familiar place in the world, having travelled through a virtual madness to get here. And now I finally understood that nagging sense of apprehension I'd had all along. It was all wrong. Everything was all wrong. And I no longer belonged here.

I walked down the hall from the parlor, passing picture after picture of my old life, and realized I barely remembered _being_ that boy in the photos. His reality and mine were worlds apart. He didn't stalk with deadly precision. He'd never had blood-tinged passion push him to the edge of reason. He'd never been pushed _past_ that edge by the onslaught of thoughts that weren't his own. His greatest worry had been how to convince his mother to let him go to war, or how to keep his father from making a lawyer out of him. His life had been _so simple_. The consequences of his actions weren't so lethal. I didn't even _look_ like that boy. Even forgetting the red eyes for a moment — and really, who _could_ forget them — but even ignoring that, all my features were slightly off; my jaw was just a little more chiseled, cheek bones just a bit higher, muscles just a bit more visible. I wasn't him. I remembered him, for the most part, but I wasn't him.

I thought that returning to my parents' home, _my home_ , would feel like… well, like coming home. But it didn't. It was familiar; I knew where I was, but the emotional response was all wrong.

The house _felt_ wrong… like someplace I'd read about or seen pictures of rather than a home I'd lived in for seventeen years. It _smelled_ wrong: musty and dirty, and with no signs of life. My mother's perfume didn't linger lightly in her wake; no scents emanated from the kitchen. This hallway, lined with wood panels reaching to within two feet of the ceiling, should smell of lemon oil and wax, not dust and medicine and illness. But worse, it _looked_ wrong. I could see too much detail, even in the darkness; I could see minutiae that didn't fit with my memories of the place. Everything was _where_ I remembered it, but it wasn't quite _how_ I remembered it. It all looked just a bit off, just like me, but it hadn't been 'improved' through the transformation, it had been scarred. It was as though these were not my possessions, but close facsimiles that didn't quite have the same beauty or emotional appeal. I saw every flaw, every scratch and dent in the wood panels along the hall, every imperfection in the glass covering the pictures; and since I'd never seen them before, they made the hall feel strange. Where I sought the familiar, I was faced with foreign. The realization was almost physically painful.

I turned and went through a door, Carlisle right behind me, oblivious to my disorientation. "Ah, so here it is: your father's study. Where's the safe located?"

I pointed to the corner, actually speechless for the moment. We didn't bother turning on lights; we could see fine without them, and we didn't want to alert any neighbors to our presence. Carlisle took his pack off, knelt beside the safe, and started turning the dial, listening carefully for each soft _click_. I could hear them from across the room, and knew he'd have no trouble opening it. His mind was… well it was an amazing place. He was simultaneously cracking the safe; remembering a Mozart concert for my benefit; making a mental list for himself of all the documents he needed to find and the legal requirements for satisfying the inheritance regulations; worrying about me and my reaction to being in my home; worrying that I still hated him and resented my new life; and monitoring the smells in the house so he could tackle me if anything were to set off my newborn instincts. Carlisle's mind was well organized, almost fastidiously tidy, each thought being processed in its own part of his mind, much like his study. And like his study, it was full of both reference and poetry… science and art.

 _My_ mind was following everything happening in his, as well as noticing details throughout the house, attempting to ignore the dreams of nine separate humans, and musing over how very spacious my mind _still_ felt despite all that. No wonder I didn't resemble that boy in the photos — that simple boy with his simple life and his mind that held one thought at a time. Even now, with all the thoughts in my mind, it felt as though a vacuum drew more thoughts to it. But while Carlisle's mind was organized, mine felt littered and vacant and huge… like a warehouse filled with disorganized clutter, with a ceiling so high it echoed despite the flotsam and jetsam underfoot. I could so easily get lost in my own mind — in both its clutter and its empty spaces — it was frightening. Sometimes it took an incredible amount of concentration just to know where I was in my mind, to stay in one place, with one thought, long enough to process it and move on, rather than spin through the same material over and over like a gramophone record.

Carlisle didn't realize how much I relied on the stability of his mind while I tried to make sense of the contents of my own. There were times I literally clung to his thoughts, as though they were a rock in the tumultuous sea of my own mind. It was nice to have an anchor, but sometimes by clinging to that stationary refuge, I was battered by the waves of my own mind. Most of the time it helped, though. Carlisle's steady, calm, often fascinating, occasionally irritating thoughts were my mooring. When he left the house to give me privacy, it was a relief to have the din decreased by half, but it left me feeling at sea.

I turned to examine the bookcases in my father's study, setting down the pack that I'd carried into the room. I wasn't the only ghost in the house. As I scanned the contents of the foreign/familiar room, my mind was flooded with partial memories, glimpses and flickers of _them…_ and us, as we'd been.I heard things I knew weren't there: the swish of my mother's skirts and the click of her heels as she moved purposely down the hall; my father shuffling papers at his desk or at his piano. I heard things that _were_ there too: Carlisle opening the door of the safe, the rustling of papers as he reviewed its contents, and his thoughts as he surveyed the titles.

 _Let's see. Last Will and Testament, insurance policy, several bonds, some letters from an attorney, oh good, this is about the estate…birth certificates, are these stock notes? I don't know this company. Ah, here's the house deed. So there's no mortgage, that's convenient…_ His mental voice was light, feathery, the voice I heard when he was not directing his thoughts at me, but I was merely overhearing them. It still had a harmonious, cello-like quality, but it fluttered. The thoughts were incompletely formed, running together, interspersed with images and feelings. When he was actually directing a thought to me, the voice sounded deeper, stronger, more resonant.

My father's bookshelves housed mostly legal texts and case studies, which I had no interest in, but there were also what he had deemed his 'philosophy' books: Montaigne's Essays, More's Utopia, Locke's Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Melville's Moby Dick, Pierce's Fixation of Belief, the complete works of Thomas Paine, and four books of essays and short stories by Mark Twain. I placed the lot in my pack, and rearranged books from other shelves to make it the shelf seem full, as Carlisle and told me to do. I was disturbing the dust in a way that looked rather glaring to me, but it was unlikely to be noticed by humans as the estate was catalogued later in the week. On the next shelf were two photos taken three years earlier, when my parents had gone to the Panama-Pacific International Exposition in San Francisco: my mother standing in front of the Tower of Jewels, and both of them in front of the Palace of Fine Arts. I smiled, remembering my mother's description of the beautiful city that had risen from the ashes like a mythic phoenix after the Great Quake. It had been her first and only visit to the Pacific Ocean… I'd stayed with neighbors, and had yet to see it… well, there'd be plenty of time for that now. I put the pictures in my pack. I continued to walk along the wall of bookshelves, not seeing much more of specific interest, but feeling my father's presence everywhere. I could almost smell his cologne, hear that little noise he made in his throat when concentrated on his reading, and the shuffling of his papers…

When I reached the door again I turned, half expecting to find him at his desk, but seeing Carlisle sitting there instead. A hiss escaped my lips before I could think. Carlisle froze and his eyes darted around the room.

_Edward. What's alarmed him? I don't smell or hear anything… He's glaring at me. What have I done now? Is he reacting to the Will I was reading? But everything seemed fine… he looks furious…_

I shook my head, trying to control my flash of temper. "Just, don't sit there… please," I managed to get out.

_Don't sit… oh, at his father's desk… and me constantly thinking of him as my son… of course he's upset. How could I be so insensitive?_

He stood and walked to the other side of the desk, where a 'guest' chair sat empty.

"Will this be okay?" he asked tentatively.

"Of course. I'm sorry, Carlisle. It's just…"

"You don't have to explain, Edward. Are you finding everything?" he asked gently.

I sighed and looked around the room. "I think I'm done in here. I'm going upstairs to the bedrooms. I'm going to take both packs, in case I need the space. Just call if you need anything."

He nodded. "These will keep me busy for a while longer. Remember to cover your tracks as much as possible. Oh, and take some more clothes…"

I nodded, taking both the packs, and made my way upstairs. I went to my room first, packing some clothes, and then pulling my collection of T206 Piedmont baseball cards out of my top drawer. I looked through them briefly, and then put them back in the envelope and dropped them into the pack. I looked around my room to see what else I might want to bring. I packed my baseball, mitt and cap, and then moved to my desk where I found my atlas and several of my favorite novels. I looked at the stack of papers and pamphlets on the war and Army recruitment, but left them there. I looked on the shelf at the ribbons I'd received for track and field events. I took my favorite: the blue ribbon for the 500-yard dash I'd earned last year. I laughed as I thought about that race… my parents were so excited I could actually hear my mother calling out encouragements as I ran. I'd had no idea she could jump up and down in those shoes she'd been wearing. My father didn't even chastise her for unseemly behavior, but just strode over to me when the coach released me and shook my hand with one of the broadest smiles I'd ever seen on him. And my best friend, Andrew had won in the 1-mile race…it had been a good day. I left the other ribbons, and took the packs into my parents' room.

The bed was still unmade. We'd left that morning in such a rush, my father's fever suddenly so high, that Mother had left everything as it was, and called the maid to tell her not to report that day. And then the house had been put under quarantine… so the bed was just as it had been that fateful morning. I left the packs by the door and walked over to the bed. I could still see the imprints their heads had made in their down pillows. I caressed the shallow indention in my father's pillow suddenly overcome with emotion. His last coherent thoughts had been made on this pillow, before he'd fallen asleep the night before. By morning he'd been delirious and he never recovered. Mother and I had experienced the hospital, but he was never lucid there. It's probably just as well; he'd have hated being there, hated feeling so helpless, hated knowing he was slowly slipping away. I was glad he'd been spared that, even if Mother hadn't… even if I hadn't. He'd been a proud man; it would have been harder on him. I sighed and looked at my mother's pillow, then reached for it and brought it to my face and inhaled. It was still there; beneath the scent of the cotton and feathers, I could still smell her.

With new purpose, I went to my father's wardrobe. There on a hook on the left side was the wool scarf he wore nearly every day. I raised it to my face. Yes, it was there… his scent. I packed the scarf and went to my mother's wardrobe. This was harder…there was nothing she wore every day… not that I'd feel comfortable keeping, at least. I wasn't so desperate for her scent that I'd take a satin undergarment. I looked in the drawers and found her kid gloves. They were steeped with her scent and her perfume, and they were small… perfect.

I moved next to my father's dresser. Going through his top drawer, I took his silver monogrammed cufflinks, and the gold pocket watch he'd worn almost my entire life. I left the new wrist-watch. He didn't like it anyway. Next I moved to mother's jewelry case… a whole piece of furniture dedicated to the baubles my father had bought her. There were only a few that I was particularly interested in.

"Edward?" Carlisle's voice was soft, but the house was so quiet, I jumped as his voice reached me from downstairs.

"Yes?"

"The insurance policy lists several items individually."

"And the implication of that is…"

"It would be best if we didn't take them," Carlisle finished. "You still _can_ , of course, if it's very important, but it would be better if we left them until the inheritance proceedings are concluded. It will raise concerns if these items are missing."

"What are they?"

"Mostly jewelry."

"It just so happens I'm at my mother's treasure trove as we speak," I said softly, the hush of the house affecting both our moods.

"There are five items. A sapphire choker…"

"It's here," I said, after opening the top drawer and sifting through the velvet pouches.

"A set of diamond earrings."

"Check," I said, setting them to the side.

"A diamond and ruby pendant."

"I don't see that yet," I said, sifting through the velvet, setting aside the pieces I intended to keep. "Oh wait, here it is. Next?"

"A single diamond pendant cut in the shape of a heart."

"I'm taking that one." I heard Carlisle sigh downstairs.

"It's very valuable, but I assure you, you do not need to worry about money, and the inheritance will go more smoothly if these items are available to be…"

"He gave it to her the day I was born. It represents me; their love, made corporeal in me." I felt Carlisle's mind go completely blank for a fraction of a second; even Mozart froze, his hands raised unnaturally over the ivory keys.

"Yes, we'll take it with us… I'll sort something out." Mozart was playing again, and I smiled at Carlisle's reaction as I placed the velvet pouch in my pack. "The last piece is a diamond necklace."

"That's here too. The ruby choker isn't listed?"

"No, that's all the jewelry listed. Beyond that it's the piano, and four paintings."

"I'll risk those. I'm going to take this ruby choker…she wore it almost every Christmas."

"Anything not listed won't cause a complication…just try not to make it look like we looted the place."

"I'll do my best," I chuckled.

"And take your time, I still have four documents to review."

"Thanks, Carlisle," I said as I got back to work. In the end I took seven pieces of jewelry, including the heart-shaped diamond. They were all things she'd worn to important events that I could remember. I also went to her bedside table and took the last book she'd been reading, and the picture of the two of them on their wedding day, and my baby picture. I looked in the shelves across from the bed where the family Bible and photo albums were always kept, but they were missing. I rummaged through the entire bookcase twice, went to each of their bedside tables, opened every drawer, my actions becoming more frantic; they simply weren't there.

"Edward? Are you okay?" Carlisle asked as I released a frustrated growl.

"Something's missing."

"Would you like my help?" The concern in his mind overwhelmed his other thoughts. He was trying to give me space to do this on my own, but was worried that if I started getting angry or frustrated, my newborn instincts would set me spiraling out of control. I tried to calm myself, taking deep breaths and clinging again to his thoughts.

"I'm looking for the family Bible and two brown leather photo albums." I heard him climb the stairs. "They belong in here, but I can't find them. Everything looks a bit wrong; they might be right in front of me and I'm not recognizing them." He was standing in the doorway, his concerned eyes scanning my face.

"The last time you were in this house, you had human senses and perceptions. I'm sure it's a bit disorienting," he said softly. I nodded. "Your father was sick in this room for several days before you all went to the hospital, was he not?" I nodded again. "Perhaps she took those items to another part of the house, so she could look at them without disturbing his rest."

I thought for a moment. "The sunroom," I whispered. Carlisle raised an eyebrow. "The sitting area off the dining room is west-facing, and Mother loved to read in there. I bet you're right. I bet she took them down there so she wouldn't disturb him. Sitting in the corner of that room, with the sun streaming in, always cheered her, no matter how difficult her situation… she spent a lot of time down there her last days…"

"Do you want me to help you look?" he asked.

"No, I'm okay now. Thank you." He turned to leave. "Carlisle?"

He stopped and turned. "Hmmm?"

"Carlisle, how did you do this alone as a newborn? I can barely keep myself together with all you do to help. How did you control your thoughts and emotions?" And then I saw it; I closed my eyes as it washed over me. Thirst. Darkness. Hiding. Flashes of scenery laced with fear, anger, loathing. The ground approaching swiftly and a feeling of rushing wind in my… his… our hair. He'd flung himself from a cliff. The thunderous sea, littered with jagged rocks and angry spray, all approaching swiftly. Pain. The darkness of the sea floor, saltwater burning our lungs. More thirst. The scent of a dark musty cave, all coherent thought gone. Madness contained in a cave on the moors, and then the scent of deer, and the flash of instinct. I opened my eyes and saw the strain on his face.

"It was… difficult."

Carlisle Cullen was a _master_ of understatement. I felt the corner of my mouth twitch, despite the horror I'd just relived.

"I can see that. It's a veritable miracle that you managed to avoid hunting humans."

"Yes!" he exclaimed quietly. "Even in my darkest moments, God did not completely abandon me." Understatement he had mastered. Optimism… well, he attempted it, but I saw his inner mind, and knew he struggled with it more than he'd care to admit. I thought to myself that I'd rather have Carlisle than the vision of God's support he'd just shown me, but I didn't say it aloud. He'd find it shocking, and would not take it as a compliment.

I touched my father's pillows one last time, thinking of the differences between Carlisle and Edward Sr. Would the differences seem so pronounced if I had been able to read my father's thoughts as I read Carlisle's? It was hard to imagine my father being so… so _earnest_ , but perhaps I just didn't know him that well, outside our roles as father and son. I sighed, and then looked up as I read the concern in Carlisle's mind again. "I'm okay, just… saying goodbye, I guess."

"I'll leave you to it, then. Shall I take this pack? It looks nearly full, and I can put some of the documents we'll take in it."

"Sure, what are we taking?"

"Your birth certificate, and some notes I'm making on the other documents."

"You're writing things down?"

"Not to help me remember," he said smiling. "That's not a problem. It's for the facade. When I meet with the lawyer on your behalf, because you're still too ill to meet with him yourself, it will be better if I'm working off notes that I wrote while 'speaking with your father' before his death, on his stationery. Also, with your consent, I intend to forge a memorandum from your father asking me to agree to be your temporary guardian until your eighteenth birthday, in the event that he and your mother both succumb to the epidemic. I'll date it the day before you all left for the hospital, and include his, my and your signatures."

"You can forge his handwriting?"

"There are several examples downstairs, I think I can manage. I'll let you be the judge when you come down to sign it."

"And you'll take that too, for the meeting with the lawyer?"

"No, I thought I'd leave it in the safe with the Will for him to find. I can include my post office box number; perhaps he'll contact us," Carlisle said with a slightly mischievous smile.

I smirked. "I see. Well, sure, take that pack… I'll be down in a few minutes." He left and I heard him re-enter my father's study. I looked one more time around the room, touching the warm wood of the bed, and the still clock on my father's bedside table. All the clocks in the house had run down. They all showed different times, but they were all still. They were dead, just like my parents — just like my family. I remained, but my family was dead and gone. I sighed and wondered if the ache in my chest would ever quite go away. I bid my parents' sanctuary farewell, and returned downstairs with the second pack. As I passed the doorway to the study, Carlisle called me in to show me the letter he'd drafted. I looked it over, impressed that he'd done such a respectable job with my father's handwriting in such a short amount of time.

"You see, here it mentions your cousins in Denver, but specifically indicates that family is already struggling. And because you are so close to the age of inheritance, your parents feel it's best that you stay in the area so you may claim your home as soon as possible, and have the support of your life-long friends in the event of your parents' death. That should be sufficient to convince the estate executor, coupled with our knowledge of the documents in the safe. So just sign here, and I'll do the same, and then I'll sign for your father, once I get it right. I've been practicing on this sheet, but something's off.

I looked at the other sheet. "You need to add a downward flourish at the bottom of the 'E'. See, look at this one…" I held up one of my father's letters.

"Oh, I see. Yes, that's the problem. How does this look?" he said, trying again.

"Better. That should be convincing. You know, Carlisle, if you weren't so honorable, you could become a very wealthy man with these skills."

 _I am a very wealthy man._ His thoughts turned immediately to the documents again as he signed my father's name to the memorandum at last, and placed it with the Will. I was amused to realize that he might have just hidden the meaning of his thoughts from me. How extraordinary.

"I have three more documents to review," he said, dismissing me to finish my work. He was embarrassed. And then I saw the meaning he'd tried to hide. He had wealth; a long life of working, saving and investing had allowed for that. But he also meant me. He considered himself blessed and wealthy, because he had me. And he assumed I'd be angered by the thought.

"I'll head to the dining room, then," I said, picking up the pack, and trying to leave him to his thoughts, focusing instead on the Mozart again.

In the corner of the dining room was a curio cabinet that housed my mother's music box collection. The oldest had been my favorite, and I distinctly remembered her letting me play with it on the carpet while she entertained friends when I was four or five years old. The box itself was wood inlay in an intricate scroll design, and when opened, glass covered the working parts of the music player, so that all the wheels and gears could be seen. As a child I'd thought it was magic, but as I grew I studied that little machine through the glass until I'd understood the purpose of each gear and cog. It played Mozart's Waltz in B flat, which was the first song my mother taught me to dance to. I tried to remember how it felt. We were laughing in the parlor, and she kept counting out loud for me as I tried to lead, despite the fact that she had a much better grasp of what we were doing than I did.

"Carlisle?"

"Yes, Edward."

"Could you please stop remembering the Mozart concert? I'm trying to think of something, and it's interfering."

"Of course… will you be all right?"

"Yes, the dreams are much easier to ignore now. I'll probably need something to distract me during the trip back, but I'm fine for now."

The concert stopped, and I could hear the Waltz in B Flat clearly. I closed my eyes, remembering that first dance with my mother, how her eyes sparkled, how my father stood in the doorway chuckling, telling me I'd never get a second dance if I kept stepping on my partner's toes. It was a good memory, and I clung to it. After another moment of savoring it, I wrapped the box in a cloth from the sideboard and placed it in my pack. There were other beautiful boxes, one played Chopin's Waltz in C Sharp minor, one of my favorite melodies… but while Mozart actually sounded sweet coming from a wind-up box, Chopin could not be contained in such a lifeless, unvarying instrument. I took one other, a porcelain figurine of a woman at a pianoforte, which played Beethoven's Für Elise. It had been Mother's favorite. I wrapped it carefully in several pieces of cloth I found in the sideboard, and held onto it so I could put it in the top of the pack, just before we left.

I went into the sunroom and found the Bible and photo albums by her favorite wing-backed chair, as well as a book of poetry I didn't recognize. She must have been reading this too, in her final days. I packed it all up, and took the pack and music box to the parlor. I set the pack down by the sofa, and stood facing the piano. My father's piano. I was allowed to play it, but it was definitely his. How many times had I listened to him play for my mother? Whenever she'd call him a stodgy old lawyer, decrying the way his work had overtaken his life, he would sit and play for her, and leave her dancing or crying or laughing, and they'd shortly retire upstairs. Perhaps he had been as earnest as Carlisle; it was just rarely directed toward me.

I sat at the instrument, lightly fingering the ivory keys… I didn't dare play any music; the neighbors would think the house was haunted. Besides, it seemed only right that the last music to be brought forth from this lovely instrument be his. This piano should be silent now, like the clocks. But that didn't stop me from caressing the keys, stroking the places that I knew his fingers had been. I often hadn't understood my father — he wasn't particularly demonstrative or communicative — but I understood him when he sat at this bench. I couldn't match his skill, but I could appreciate it. All the feeling he held in during his daily life poured out through his fingers when he sat here. Other than his wife, I couldn't be sure what he was passionate about in his life; he never shared that with me. But that he _was_ passionate I knew, because of his behavior when he sat here. I wished he'd shared it with me. I wished he'd talked to me with his voice rather than his hands. He would have been less of a mystery. Perhaps he'd have been easier to let go if I'd understood him better. I was sure of my mother's affection and approval, and of my father's love, but as for approval, I couldn't be sure. What he would think if he saw me now, in this new life? Would he consider me damned, or blessed with a second chance, as my mother believed? I just didn't know. But I was fairly sure I knew how he'd react if he'd seen my behavior toward Carlisle over the last week or so.

Carlisle. So earnest. So kind. Trying so hard to do what was right and just with the unjust hand fate had dealt him. So _easy_ to punish. I sighed as I thought back on my behavior. I'd been a brat. Not wholly without cause, mind you. What could be expected of me, with so much to assimilate into my new existence? But I'd been treating him poorly; I'd taken every frustration, every pain, every heartache out on him, and he'd taken it all and been grateful… _grateful_ … just to have me there. If I'd treated my father that way, he would have boxed my ears, and then — with absolutely no hint of irony — he would have told me to act like a man. If Carlisle had treated _his_ father that way… well we'd never discussed it, but I'd seen enough snippets of memory to know that he'd have carried the bruises for weeks. And Carlisle just showed me infinite patience. And I punished him for that too. My father would be ashamed.

I sighed as I continued to stroke the piano keys. My family was dead. They would have been dead whether Carlisle had interceded with me or not; I couldn't punish him for the fact that I didn't have them any more. Perhaps he had damned me by his actions; perhaps he hadn't. Regardless, he was in the same state I was, and he was a far better man. He didn't _act_ damned. I could at least try not to act damned either. He wasn't family, but he was good, and he was a mentor. I could try to stop being such a brat. Perhaps if my father were looking down on me, he would be proud of that small achievement.

I felt Carlisle's presence at the doorway, and heard his shock at seeing me at the piano. _Oh, he looks so lost, so alone. Should I go to him? Would he find it comforting? No, he's made it clear that he wants to do this on his own as much as possible. I should go back to the study until he tells me he's ready to leave. Yes, I'll just back away…_

"Don't go," I requested shakily. I slid to my left, silently inviting him to sit with me. I felt the joy swell in his mind, and then heard his tentative steps as he closed the distance between us. He lowered his pack to the floor, and sat beside me on the piano bench. We were silent for a few moments, and I watched through his mind as he studied my hand gliding across the keys.

"Do you play?" he finally asked.

I nodded. "Not as well as he did. I never had the patience to run scales enough to build up the speed necessary for my favorite music."

"I doubt speed or precision would be a problem now."

"True," I said laughing softly. "Though I probably shouldn't test that now… the neighbors might think a phantom haunts the house."

"I agree," he said with a soft smile. "Did he play Chopin? Is that why you like it so much?"

I nodded. "Beautifully. He played Chopin beautifully, with so much expression… most people can't do it justice. He should have played for a symphony, but he chose the career with the more stable paycheck so he could support his family."

"That's admirable."

"Do you think so? I think it made him hard. He didn't have a passion for the law, despite all those books," I nodded toward the study.

"He must have had a passion for his family, to want to provide for them so well. I've just gone though all his most important papers, and he paid exacting attention to detail to make sure that you and your mother would be independent if anything happened to him. He was quite thorough."

I nodded again, considering that. "I just wish he hadn't sacrificed quite so much of himself to achieve it," I whispered. Carlisle's mind filled with admiration; my concern for my father touched him. He also felt envy, comparing the sentiment to his own relationship with his father, and his relationship with me… quickly circumventing the latter thought. I chose not to react.

"You should take his sheet music. We'll have to leave the piano; it would be too noticeable, and too hard to transport surreptitiously. But you should take his sheet music, as much of it as you like."

I nodded and we both stood so I could remove the music from the compartment in the bench. I placed it in my pack, set my mother's music box above it, and closed the pack up. I took a look around the parlor and then turned to face Carlisle. His head was tilted slightly as he studied me.

"We can take more time, if you like. There's still more than two hours before dawn. Are you sure you have everything you want?"

I donned my pack. "I'd like the paintings eventually, but I have enough." I sighed and gazed one final time at this strangely foreign and familiar room… accepting for once and for all that I no longer belonged here. It was just a house now. Strangely, the thought didn't bring the pain it had when I first entered the parlor several hours earlier. I looked back at the man who would help shape my future.

"Let's go home, Carlisle." I felt the joy swell in him again as he heard the word _home_. I took a deep breath and held it. He put on his pack and took my hand.

"I was thinking, perhaps a little Hayden would be nice for the trip home." My mind was filled again with sounds and sights from his past, and we left through the French doors, resealing this tomb of _my_ past.

* * *

_AN: Thanks to my beta, Coleen561._ Music for this chapter can be found in the [web playlist](http://grooveshark.com/#%21/playlist/Prelude+In+C+By+ATONAU/60866524), or the links below:

Music boxes: [Mozart's Waltz (Ländler) in B flat](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2oyz_RMoYzY); [Chopin's Waltz, Op. 64, No. 2 in C-Sharp Minor](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aDP5rOTpZBg&feature=related); [Beethoven's Für Elise](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NygQ7TVXB9U&playnext=1&list=PLC3D4DEC92705E59F)

Concert Carlisle plays in his mind for the trip home: [Haydn Piano Concerto in D Major Hob. XVIII: II - Mov. 1/3](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Egvn618FSKI)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: These are SM's characters. I'm just playing.

_The music for this chapter can be found on_ _the[web playlist](http://grooveshark.com/#%21/playlist/Prelude+In+C+By+ATONAU/60866524) (thanks NixHaw!)._

 

* * *

[ ](http://atonau-pic.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/281/684)

CPOV

I was practically giddy with anticipation as I slowly turned the truck onto the dirt road that led to the house, careful not to let the top-heavy load shift in its bed. I still had several miles before I would have to monitor my thoughts so Edward wouldn't hear my plans. I sighed, relieved that today, finally, there would be one less secret I was trying to keep from him. I would know, based on whether he was surprised, whether I _could_ keep things from him. And though the logistics involved in my surprise had been painstaking, I was curious to see if I'd succeeded. But I was _excited_ about the surprise itself.

I downshifted, and my thoughts drifted back over the events of the last few weeks, and how I had come to finally be driving such precious cargo down the rough road to my, no . . . _our_ home.

The idea first formed shortly after we returned home from the Masen residence. Edward was so pleased with his new possessions, and so in need of peace after the mentally grueling trip to town, that I decided to take a run and give him some physical and mental privacy. There was the added benefit that I _too_ could consider all that I had learned about him in privacy as well. And though the most thrilling revelation was that he considered my house a home, the most _intriguing_ revelation was that it was possible to drown out some of the thoughts he received. If one thought was compelling enough, it could overwhelm the others, or so it seemed. I wondered if the same principle would apply if I were trying to drown out _my_ other thoughts, rather than the thoughts of other people. So far, I'd attempted to retain my privacy by simply not thinking about things in his presence, but it was an almost impossible feat. How could one concentrate on _not_ thinking about something? Now I had an alternate strategy. If I concentrated on a thought that was a ruse, perhaps I could confuse the emphasis of what he saw in my mind.

A test was in order and I knew just what I wanted to attempt: something of a grand scale, but still not terribly important, in case I failed. I began my plan, and my subterfuge. So if I thought of his father's piano, I immediately thought of the rest of the items listed in the insurance policy so it would seem I were still concerned about the inheritance. If I thought of Chopin, and sheet music, I also thought about the gramophone and various records. I frequently remembered concerts I'd gone to in Europe, both for his entertainment, and to keep me from thinking about my errands when I returned home. I did it whether my errands were secretive of not, so he wouldn't see a pattern. In some ways, I hadn't had to exercise so much discipline since my first century, when I was teaching myself tolerance to the scent and sight of human blood. The challenge was interesting, and of course less potentially fatal than my previous challenges, but if I succeeded, it had broad implications for my life with Edward.

And life with Edward was good — challenging in its own way, but very good. In the weeks since our trip to the Masens' we'd settled into a comfortable pattern. Edward was still incredibly sad at times, and easily frustrated, as any newborn would be, but he seemed less angry. And even better, he seemed to actively seek my company at various points during the day, and even to enjoy it.

It didn't happen all at once. The first few days back from visiting his parents' home were the hardest. He'd stayed in his room, except when he needed to hunt. He went through each of his possessions, poring over the photos for hours at a time. From the desk in my study, I could hear him slowly turning the stiff pages, sighing, rubbing his fingers across the photos. Occasionally I would hear his breath catch in his throat. The springs in his armchair would protest as his body was wracked with sobs. And then I would hear him calm again, and another stiff page turn. Now that his anger was largely gone, he was finally mourning them properly. It was agonizing to witness, and I had no idea really how to help him. He seemed to want to be alone; he was, after all, holed up in his room. But I'd thought the same thing watching him at his father's piano, and he had wanted my company then. I was paralyzed with indecision; I wanted to go to him, but somehow climbing the stairs and knocking on his door seemed like a terrible invasion of his privacy, just as leaving the house seemed like abandoning him. On the third day, I finally approached him in the least invasive way I could.

 _Edward,_ I thought from my study, _I can hear how upset you are, and I know you are aware I can hear. Please know that if you need me to leave the house and grant you more privacy, you need only whisper it and I'll be gone for a few hours. Or if you'd like to talk, I am at your disposal. I can come up if you'd rather stay in your room. I don't want to impose on you, but please, just know that I am here for you… if you'd like._ I sighed. It still seemed like such a feeble offer.

"Don't go," I heard him whisper from his room, just as he had in the parlor of his parents' house.

 _I won't._ I took  The Mabinogion from the shelf behind my desk and began reading the old Welsh quietly aloud, hoping the soft consonants and lilting vowels would hush his sobs and soothe his ears.

Several hours later I'd been surprised to look up and see him leaning against the doorframe.

"I'm sorry I've been so unsociable," he said.

"There's no need to apologize. I've just been worried."

"I know. I've been taking your advice. I'm trying to remember different parts of my human life now, before the memories fade. The photos help me remember. It's hard… sad. I wish I'd told them things…" He looked away for a moment, struggling to control his expression. "I get caught up in it and don't even realize how much time has gone by until my throat burns or I hear you fretting."

I smiled sadly. "I don't mean to burden you Edward… I just haven't known what to do to help."

He shrugged. "You're here," he said simply. That I was.

"Do you need to hunt?"

"Not yet, but I need a break. I'm tired of thinking about my life…let's think about yours for a while." He smiled and walked over to my paintings; my life represented in art. Very little of me was actually represented there; they were mostly paintings of places that were important to me, and like his photos, reminded me of specific times in my life. He stood before the only exception. "Let's start with this big colorful one. What's its significance?" He gasped as he studied the painting, and then turned back to face me. "That's you, isn't it? On the balcony?" I nodded. "When was this done?"

"Ah, let's see. About 1720 or so, in Volterra, Italy."

"Volterra as in Volturi?"

"Precisely," I said, raising my eyebrows and admiring his perceptive mind. "Caius, Aro, and Marcus were patrons of the arts, of sorts. Solimena was only one of the many artists they supported while I was there. But Aro was particularly fond of his work… he enjoyed how Solimena always portrayed them as looking down on the human inhabitants of the city… and it was fitting, he truly did look down on them." I smiled ruefully. "Aro gifted me that one when I left, because I was in it and he hoped it would remind me of happy times, and bring me back to him eventually, eager to change my unnatural ways."

"Aro didn't know you very well, did he?"

"On the contrary, he knew me very well; he just didn't understand me. And I understood him… a little too well."

I got up from my desk and walked over to the wall, a bit to the left of where Edward stood, where a series of much less imposing paintings were clustered. "If you want to understand my life, we'd be better off starting with this one," I said, pointing at a small monochromatic oil painting of London. "I was born in London, in 1640 or so, the only son of an Anglican minister. My mother died in childbirth…"

I'd spent much of the afternoon going over my history to date, moving from painting to painting representing the different major phases of my life: London, Scotland, Paris, Orleans, Volterra, Vienna, Boston, and various towns throughout the northern United States and southern Canada. He had let me talk for hours, asking questions and seeking clarification. Where had I studied first? Why philosophy? What music? When did I first know I wanted to practice medicine? How long had it taken me to be tolerant of the smell of blood?

Finally with the last question, he had decided it was time to hunt. He'd wisely taken to holding his breath while running the first few miles north of the house. The vast wilderness to the north was much less likely to have scents that could tempt or torture him compared to the area immediately around our home. Part of me still thought it would be best to move to a cabin deeper in the woods for his first months, but then I would have to be away from him for even longer periods of time to take care of any business associated with the inheritance. I loathed leaving him alone for more than a few hours at a time. I remembered the excruciating loneliness of my first months, and did not want him to feel it. We each fed, and we started back to the house.

"I don't want to move," he said, answering my unspoken thoughts.

I sighed. "We will have to move within the year anyway. It would, in many ways, be much safer if we moved as soon as initial contact with the solicitor was handled."

"I like our house. And I don't want to make you move all your things just for me. Mine all fit in a pack or two, but moving yours would take some effort."

"As it always does. Edward, I'm no stranger to moving my things. But the logistics are more complicated when you cannot freely take the train with me…this requires some thought."

"I'm doing okay this close to town, let's just stay for now."

I frowned at him, trying to understand his reasoning. "Do you want to be able to visit your parents' house again?"

"No, it's just, I've always lived in Chicago. I'm not ready to leave yet."

I studied him again, about to make further arguments in favor when he interrupted me.

"Let's race home. I need to stretch my legs…I feel like I've been curled into a ball for days." He was almost jubilant, his change in mood abrupt. He'd been waiting too long between his meals. With all the other stress he'd been under his thirst had made him grumpier and more depressed than he'd needed to be.

"Yes, yes," he said rolling his eyes, "I'll feed more regularly. Now let's see what you've got, old man! On your mark, get set…" I barely had time to mimic his crouch. "GO!" Damn, but he was fast. I struggled to keep up.

_Hold your breath as we approach the house, just in case._

"Yes sir!" he laughed, clearly enjoying himself. I saw him take a breath and hold it as we topped a steep hill. The terrain heading down toward the house was rough, and I chose to avoid it altogether by launching myself off a boulder and ricocheting between tree trunks until I reached the bottom, where I briefly — very briefly — took the lead.

"Nice move." He spared the slightest bit of air to compliment me as he bolted past, reaching the front door a full three strides ahead of me, and grinning like a Cheshire cat. He opened the door for me like a gentleman and then collapsed, still grinning, on the sofa. He let out the rest of the breath he'd been holding while I closed the door and sat in one of the armchairs. He looked exceedingly pleased with himself.

"You're going to be insufferable now, aren't you?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. His grin widened, if that's possible.

"More so than usual, you mean?" He asked with mock innocence. "I'm just relieved that I'm better than you at _something_. And don't try to say it's just because I'm a newborn…I was fast even before you changed me, and I bet I'll still be fast in a year. Especially if I start using some of the fancy moves of my elders."

I laughed. I couldn't help it. It was a relief to finally see him happy, and my heart felt light, even if he was baiting me. Newborns and their mood swings. I shook my head. He chuckled at that thought.

"I should head out for a few hours, if you're okay to be alone."

His face fell. "You're not upset are you? Because I was just…"

"No Edward," I reassured, smiling. "I humbly acquiesce to your superior speed. I just haven't checked our post office box for days because I didn't want to leave you alone while you mourned. Your solicitor may be trying to reach us. I won't be long."

"Okay, I'll start reading Father's books, I guess. See you in a bit." He went upstairs, and I went into my study to retrieve the key, and then headed south toward town. When I broke out of the trees, I headed quickly to the post office, only to find the box empty still. That wasn't surprising. I walked to a public park, where I sat and watched children play while I let my thoughts finally roam completely free. I let out a breath, as if I'd been holding it since the last time I'd been alone. And I started to plan. If we were staying — and Edward clearly wanted to — then it was time to make the house more comfortable for him. I formulated my plan — and my plan for hiding it from him — and then headed back home, remembering the performance of The Marriage of Figaro I'd seen in Prague.

And so our daily pattern was finally established. Each morning he'd stay in his room for a few hours and look through his pictures and remember his past. Then he would come downstairs to join me with a book. As we sat, each of us lost in our own thoughts, he'd ask me about a date. The first time he did it, I had no idea what he was after.

"1680," he said, as a complete non sequitur.

"I beg your pardon?" I asked, setting down my book.

"1680."

"What about it?"

"Where were you and what were you doing?"

"Oh! Let's see," I said looking at the ceiling. "1680: France. I was at the University of Paris studying French and philosophy."

"Not medicine?"

"Not yet…that came later."

The next day it was 1742.

"Volterra, Italy. Eleazar taught me vampire history and combat techniques.

"1862"

"Maryland. Union Field Hospital."

"You served as a surgeon during the Civil War?"

"I did indeed."

"That must have been… challenging."

"You have no idea." I hesitated to think about, much less describe, the death and blood and infection I associated with that war. Edward noticed my mood.

"1790"

"Vienna, then Prague. I was studying medicine. And occasionally attending concerts." I smiled. I'd already played several of these for him.

After reading for a while, we'd go for a hunt and a run, and then I'd head out to town for a few hours in the afternoon. I'd always come back remembering a play or concert from my past, in hopes that it would hide my shopping trips. By the end of the first week, I'd implemented the first stage of my plan. I was going to need a vehicle, and that also meant I was going to need a garage. The small barn that came with the house was still standing, but its roof wasn't. I bought a Doane HP 6-ton flatbed truck, lumber, and materials for replacing the roof, as well as lumber for some additional woodworking projects, and headed back to the house. I'd expected to find Edward on the porch. Surely the noise of the engine would have piqued his interest. But he was nowhere to be seen.

I entered the house, calling for him, and couldn't find him anywhere. I climbed the stairs, only to be greeted by his empty room. Starting to panic, I made a thorough search of each room, only to hear a knocking from downstairs. I rushed down, and realized the sound was still below me. Entering the kitchen, I found the door to the storm cellar. I entered the dark, dank space and saw Edward huddled in a corner.

"What are you doing down here?" I asked, relief seeping through my bones. He shook his head, and I saw that he was holding his breath. "Was there a problem?" He nodded, locking his arms around his legs, holding himself tight. I knelt next to him, placing both hands on his shoulders and looking into his face. "What happened?"

"Humans," he whispered.

"Here?" I asked, confused. He nodded. I inhaled deeply, looking around. "I don't smell anything."

"I heard a vehicle," he whispered again, careful not to inhale. I smiled, relieved.

"That was me."

"You don't have a car."

"I have a truck," I corrected, "as of two hours ago. Sorry, it was a bit of a whim."

He relaxed into the wall, laughing and running his fingers through his hair.

"I didn't even wait to try to get a scent. I just held my breath. I was afraid it would be too late to control myself if I actually smelled them."

"That was good thinking; it probably would have been. But I think there's little chance that anyone besides me would be brave enough to take a vehicle on our road. Especially after today."

"Why is that?"

"I placed several boulders across the road about a mile from the turn off. I'll be knocking down the vegetation with the truck, and making the road easier for the humans to see, so I thought a more serious barrier was needed to protect our privacy."

He nodded, and then looked at me again, confused. "I'm sorry, why did you buy a truck? I thought we'd decided not to move."

"We decided not to move immediately, but we'll need to move eventually, and I thought we might benefit from having a truck earlier rather than later. I needed it to haul some materials. Will you help me unload?"

"Sure," he said. I stood and held out my hand to him, helping him up. We walked outside and he saw the truck loaded with lumber. "What's all that for?"

"Repairing the roof of the barn, so we can use it as a garage." I thought very hard about a Bach concert, and tried to look as innocent as possible.

"Let me make sure I understand. You bought a truck, because you needed to haul lumber, to repair a roof, so that you could protect a truck."

"Yes," I answered.

"And you see nothing circular about that logic?" He eyed me suspiciously.

I switched to an opera. A very complicated duet. "Well, there will be other advantages to having a truck. If we need to move suddenly, we will be able to…"

"Hmmm." He looked unconvinced, and I gave him a stack of shingles.

"Could you put those in the barn, please?" We both made several trips before he saw the strips of molding.

"Those aren't for the barn, are they?"

"No, I also bought supplies to make you a few bookcases and some picture frames. I thought you might like to display some of your photos downstairs."

"Really?" he asked. "That would be okay?"

"Of course. You're not renting a room from me, Edward; it's your home too."

He smiled at me, and took the molding

Over the next several days, I taught him how to replace the roof. It was enjoyable, sitting so high in the crisp, pale sun, amongst the changing leaves, working together. At one point while we worked he said, "I thought you told me you weren't good at home repair."

"I'm a dismal plumber, but anything to do with woodworking, I quite enjoy. Even in my human life I did a bit of carpentry."

"That plane you were using yesterday looked ancient. Is that from your first life?"

"No," I laughed. "But it's the same basic model, and not _much_ younger than me. I had it in France."

The next week I took the truck out again, and came home with a full set of tools for Edward. I started to teach him how to make a bookcase. He was making a short one to put under the window in his bedroom; I was making a taller one that could house his things in the parlor. We worked side by side in the barn for days, after clearing an area to be our woodshop. He had more patience than I would have expected, planing and sanding the boards until they were virtually perfect, even by vampire standards. He was taking great pride in his work, and it was good to see him pouring his attention and care into it. I even found him out there working on it alone when I'd come back from my trip into town one day. I took pride in the skill he was developing, and in the fact that he seemed to share my enjoyment of carpentry.

Those trips to town had become increasingly frustrating for me. I kept moving further and further south into downtown Chicago, visiting showrooms and warehouses, until one of the dealers mentioned an estate sale. After making that short side trip, I finally found exactly what I was looking for. After some negotiations with the dealer, and receiving instructions in care and maintenance, it was purchased. I told them I'd pick it up the next day. When I returned, the dealer helped me load it into the truck, and now I was bringing it home.

I was pulled from my memories and back to the present as I exited the truck to move the boulders I'd placed in the road weeks earlier. After I drove past them, I returned them to their positions, once again securing our privacy. Only two more miles to go, and Edward could likely hear my thoughts soon. I tried to concentrate on a ballet this time, flooding my mind with the beautiful music and choreography while navigating the last of our dirt road with my precious cargo. But I knew I wasn't devoting my mind entirely the performance. I was too excited, and I was sure he would be able to read it; I just hoped the ballet would hide enough that he'd be surprised, assuming I hadn't let a thought slip in the last few weeks. I really hoped I was surprising him; I hoped it had survived the journey; I hoped he would like it.

When I came into sight of the house, he was sitting on the porch railing, clearly curious. I watched his eyes grow large as he focused on the contents of the truck. He hopped down off the rail and jogged over to the truck as I parked it.

"Carlisle, did you decide to take it from the house?" he asked incredulously.

"No, your father's is still there. This one is yours."

He climbed up into the bed of the truck and caressed the wood, flipping up the guard to expose the keys. He looked at me solemnly. "You bought me a piano?"

I smiled softly. "The sheet music isn't much use without one."

He ran his fingers over the keys. "I can't believe you bought me a piano," he said quietly. He placed his hands on the keys and ran several scales, and turned to me with a huge grin on his face. "It feels great. A little out of tune…"

"I got you a tuning kit as well. It was in tune when we loaded it onto the truck, but it was pretty well jostled on the dirt road, despite my efforts. They trained me how to use the kit; I'm sure we can get it in tune easily. Let's get it into the house so you can start playing with it."

He started unfastening the straps that were holding it in place. "Where do you think it should go?" He was clearly excited.

"Well, seeing as we don't eat, and the dining room is right off the parlor, I was thinking we could move the table into the barn and you could make that your music room."

"Really?" He was incredulous. He moved his hands to support one end of the piano.

"Of course. I have my study; you should have your own room downstairs too. We can add bookcases and a desk to it as well, if you like." I took the other end of the piano and nodded at him. We lifted it easily together, taking it off the truck and up the porch stairs. He held the piano up with one hand while opening the door, and we moved it into the parlor. "Let's set it down here, and remove the table."

We placed the table in the barn, and I noted how really only the center had been ruined during Edward's transformation. The ends could be salvaged to create a writing desk, if he wanted one. We went back to the house and arranged the piano against an interior wall. I went back to the truck to get the tuning kit and bench, and when I returned he had opened up the piano to reveal the strings. I showed him how to use the tuning kit, and he spent the next hour meticulously striking the tuning forks and tightening the strings. When he was finally satisfied, he closed everything back up, and went to his room to retrieve his father's sheet music. I stayed nearby, but out of his way, sitting in the parlor with a book after putting the truck in the barn and draining the water from the radiator. We were already starting to have overnight freezes.

Edward sat at the piano, seeming almost nervous. He started with scales, methodically moving through each octave, making sure each note was true, each key was moving smoothly. Then he did it again, faster, and then faster yet. His grin was ridiculously wide, and I was grinning too, as I watched him while pretending to read in the parlor. He went through the sheet music, settling on Rondo Alla Turka by Mozart. He didn't miss a single note. He played it three times, and then got out another piece of music and played that. For hours he played, working his way through his father's Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, and Liszt. Finally, he closed the key guard, straightened the sheet music and stacked it neatly in the bench. He came into the parlor and collapsed onto the other end of the sofa, closing his eyes and allowing a blissful expression to grace his face. He sat like that for several minutes, and then opened his eyes and rolled his head so he was facing me.

"How did you find it? It's just like his."

"Not exactly. It's about three years newer, and the lettering is in a different color."

He rolled his eyes. "It's better than Father's. On his, the D below middle C sticks; the action on this one is perfect… as smooth as silk. I just don't know how to begin to thank you."

"Oh, I think you've been doing a good job the last several hours." I smiled. "Really, any playing after this is just putting us out of balance…I consider myself repaid in full."

He laughed. "Well, I'll stop playing it then, and we can just admire it from across the room from now on," he teased. Then he sighed happily. "You realize I'm going to need more sheet music…"

"Oh, without a doubt."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking sideways at me. "Seriously, Carlisle. Thank you. It's incredibly generous of you."

"You're welcome," I smiled. "I wanted you to have it weeks ago, but it was remarkably difficult to locate. Did I really manage to surprise you?"

"Yes! Well, mostly. I could tell you had an unnatural fascination with pianos, and really, all the contents of my parents' house. And that story about why you needed the truck was ridiculous… that was all just an excuse so you'd have a truck for transporting the piano, right?"

"For the most part. I fully intended to teach you carpentry as well, but in truth, I could have just carried the materials we needed for the bookcase project. The truck was mostly for the piano. I couldn't very well have it delivered by a team of humans…"

"No, definitely not! Your reasoning was so weak, but I just couldn't see how or why you'd hide the truth. I couldn't see enough of your plan to put it all together. Of course, I didn't know you _could_ hide anything from me, so I didn't try to puzzle it out too much. I'll know better if you ever try it again," he smirked.

"I won't be doing it again unless I have a _very_ good reason," I laughed. "It was utterly exhausting having to monitor my thoughts so carefully. But it's interesting to know that I might be able to keep something from you. Well, for a while, at least."

"And a relief, I imagine."

"A bit of that, too," I acknowledged. "I'm glad you like it. I promise you can pick the next one out yourself." I stood and stretched; it had gotten dark out, and a chill was entering the room. The cold didn't harm me, but I found it depressing, and I didn't want anything marring my cheerful mood. "I think I'll start a fire."

"Let me get the wood from outside." We built the fire together, and sat together, each in an armchair pulled up to the hearth, reading in a comfortable silence. I tried to remember if I'd _ever_ felt so content in my life; absolutely nothing came to mind.

 

* * *

_AN: I know this chapter was mostly fluff, but we can't have angst and newborn anger all the time. Clouds on the horizon, though._

_Music:[Mozart's Rondo Alla Turca](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OCSevzJQ2-Y)_

_Edward’s Adam Schaaf 1912 piano with butterfly-veneer:_   
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Just a Thanksgiving moment that came as I was preparing the feast.

 

[ ](http://atonau-pic.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/281/684)

  
CPOV

For the nearly 100 years since I'd made the New World my home, the holiday of Thanksgiving had always bothered me a bit. Perhaps it was because I'd not been raised with the holiday or any recognizable version of it. Perhaps, as a vampire, I simply couldn't understand the visceral and immense relief of having a successful harvest. My ancestors may have been hunters _and_ gatherers, but I was strictly a hunter at this point. Perhaps it was because it was impossible to escape the sickening smell of roasting turkey on the air wherever I went. But truly, I think I disapproved of their attitude. It was as if they thought, by devoting an entire day to being thankful, they could take their blessings for granted the rest of the year. It was uncharitable of me, perhaps, but the grace they exhibited on _this_ day just seemed to make their selfishness and apathy more pronounced the rest of the year.

I'd been taught from the earliest age to count my blessings on a daily basis. It had not always been easy. I honestly had no idea how many months I'd skipped in the insanity that had followed my transformation. But once I was in my sane mind, once I realized that I could avoid taking human life, and could dedicate my immortality to some higher purpose than mere survival, I had always found _something_ for which to be grateful. I'd struggled to find things when Solitude made herself too familiar, or when I became weary of having to move once again, leave everything behind once again, and start off once again in a new place, not knowing a single soul. But even then, I'd found _something_ to be thankful for. I was a survivor of plagues, a student of human history, a healer of broken bodies; surely being such a man was a blessing.

And yet _this_ year, for the first time I think, I felt an uncontainable, visceral joy in contemplating all the ways I was blessed. As I collected more wood from the pile at the side of the house, I reveled in how crisp and clear the day was. Frost still decorated the fallen autumn leaves with delicate feathery designs that glittered and shone like my skin in the pale sun. My breath hung in little clouds of venom on the air, before dissipating upwards. Carrying an armload of wood back to the front door, I admired the way that the few leaves remaining on the trees burned in brilliant reds and oranges against the azure sky. But for all the blessings of nature that touched my soul this day, I knew none of them compared to the blessings _within_ my home. I stomped my feet to remove any clinging wet leaves, and opened the door to my home… _our home._

Warmth washed over me. The room was positively cheerful. A joyful Bach concerto played on the gramophone, and a fire blazed merrily in the hearth. I knelt before it, placing one last log in the mix, and stacked the rest on the brick. Edward was draped over an armchair, laughing aloud as he read a short story in one of his father's Mark Twain collections. ("Carlisle, you have to hear this!" he'd said at least fifteen times already this morning, before reading aloud to me, barely able to get the words out in his mirth.) I stood and looked around the room before pulling the other armchair closer to the fire so I could join Edward with a book of my own.

"What has you grinning, old man?" Edward asked without looking up from his book. I glared, pretending to be offended by the nickname he'd given me after hearing my life's story and then, soon afterwards, beating me home in a race after hunting. We both knew the truth, though; I was pleased he was comfortable enough with me to tease.

"Just contemplating what our neighbors are doing today."

A look of concentration crossed his face briefly, followed by understanding. He swung his legs around and planted his feet on the floor, snapped his book closed, and gave me a mischievous look.

"And how _do_ vampires celebrate Thanksgiving?" he asked. "Are we off to hunt turkey this afternoon?"

"No!" I laughed. "Birds are almost never a good idea. All those feathers in your mouth…and the blood is foul."

"Carlisle! Did you just make a pun?" he asked, wide-eyed.

"Not intentionally," I laughed. "Mr. Twain has too much influence on us this morning, I think…"

He smirked and draped his leg over the armrest again, leaning into the corner of his chair and opening his book. "I'm not sure that's possible. It's just as well; I was rather comfortable. I think I'll just thank you for the fire and be done with it." His words were typically cheeky, but he followed them with a sheepish smile, and I knew he was grateful for more than the fire.

I picked up my book, enjoying the comfort of the moment, but the words on the page just swam before my eyes as I began counting my much longer list of blessings.

_Praise ye the LORD. I will praise the LORD with my whole heart…(1)_

* * *

_(1) Psalm 111 (King James Version)_   
  
_Music:[Bach's Brandenburg Concertos No.3 - i: Allegro](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hZ9qWpa2rIg&feature=related)_


	9. Chapter 9

 

_AN: SM still owns the boys. Coleen561 is still a fab beta._ _The music for this chapter can be found on_ _the[web playlist](http://grooveshark.com/#%21/playlist/Prelude+In+C+By+ATONAU/60866524) (thanks NixHaw!)._

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[ ](http://atonau-pic.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/281/684)

  
EPOV

I hung the last photo on the wall of my room and stepped back to appreciate the effect. My parents' photos were now largely removed from the albums and gracing the walls and shelves of my bedroom — my bedless bedroom — and my music room. Carlisle had taught me how make the angled cuts in the molding to form the mitered corners for the frames, how to sand the wood until it was smooth as silk, and stain, oil and wax it until it shone like glass. Once I'd made one, I'd decided I wanted to make dozens. He brought home exotic woods—teak, cherry, maple burl, and cypress. He brought home different colors of stains. He bought me tools that allowed me to create scrolls and embellishments in the wood so that the frames surrounding my mother's face were intricate and delicate. He showed me how to inlay dark woods into light ones, so the frames around my father could be bold and complex. I'd spent weeks making them, first with Carlisle's help and company, then with just his company, and finally with only the company of his mind as he sat in the house answering letters. Now I was finally out of pictures that I wanted to display.

His reasons for teaching me were, of course, complex. Nothing was ever simple with Carlisle. He wanted to give me activity and focus…Carlisle was _never_ idle… never the 'Devil's workshop', and he learned early that I was in a better mood when I didn't have time to brood. It was true. It was easier for both of us when I was well-fed and my mind was occupied. But that wasn't all; he wanted me to feel the presence of my old life in my new… wanted the pictures out so I could admire them and keep them in my daily life, rather than store them away in a book in my room. He wanted them out so he could ask me about them, as I'd asked him about his paintings. But even that wasn't all; that could have been accomplished with store-bought frames. He wanted the pictures of my old life _housed_ in creations made in my new life. The frames, made by me using skills _he'd_ taught me, protected and embellished the photos of my old family; they provided a link between my human life and family with this life, and him. It was really _excruciatingly_ sentimental… annoying, even… and he was careful to never say that was his intention. But I knew the truth; he was able to hide his thoughts for a while — deflect me — but ultimately his true worries and concerns always seemed to break through.

This desire to link himself to my human life also showed his insecurity. He wanted to be inserted into those frames so that I would remember him when I left at the end of the year; he had no doubt that I would. He wanted me to look at those pictures on the wall of my unknown home in a year or two or ten, and not just remember my parents and their stories, but remember watching the leaves turn from the roof of the barn, or coming out of the woodshop together into the pale November sun and realizing that we were both completely covered in a thin film of sawdust, and racing to the creek to bathe. I laughed at the memory, and was annoyed that it was working; I _did_ think of him when I saw these frames. And of course he was right. In a year's time I'd be 18. If I were still in my old life, I'd be striking out on my own, as a man, entering the Army as planned. There was really no reason to change that plan just because I was in a new life now. I couldn't join the Army, Carlisle argued; there would be too much blood to tempt me, and it would be too obvious when I couldn't be shot down… my secret would be out, and the Volturi would descend. No, I couldn't join the Army, but I could still strike out on my own… as a man. Carlisle seemed to expect it, just as my father would have in my old life, though it made him wistful in a way my father had never been. He expected it, and so he was already preparing for it in his own way. And so despite the fact that I was making my mark on our home — filling it with my pictures and music and books — it all felt temporary, which left me feeling insecure as well. Carlisle assured me that this was my home, but I knew from his own thoughts that homes for vampires were inherently transitory; we could not stay in one place, and it was unlikely we'd even stay together. After all, no one had stayed with him before, and I'd made it clear when we began that I would stay only as long as needed for my training and control; it had been true when I said it. And so he was doing, in a much more subtle fashion, what Aro had done with the gift of the Solimena two centuries earlier. Carlisle hoped his efforts would have more effect than Aro's had.

I sighed, thinking about my ever-changing emotions, trying to settle them, _again_. There were times I was so grateful for Carlisle's presence in my life. He was a considerate mentor with patience that would shame a priest, and generosity rivaling St. Nicholas. He worried about me _all the time_ , which was annoying, but a bit comforting as well. He was one of the best men I'd ever known, which, of course, made him an intimidating role model; I had no hope of living up to his example or expectations. But even so, he treated me as an equal. He acknowledged that my experience was less extensive, but otherwise treated me as an equal — as a friend, even. We _were_ becoming friends, in many ways, though I could never consider him my equal. He was better than me in almost every way.

But then there were other times, when I didn't feel so grateful — when I realized the limits of my new soulless body, and the potential I would never have. I didn't discuss these thoughts with Carlisle. What would be the point? He'd only beat himself up about changing me, and then I'd have to listen to that too. I already knew all his doubts; I already knew the pain he felt when I told him I considered myself damned. There was no need to rehash that, and so I no longer spoke of it. But he could tell when my mind turned down those dark alleys by my sullen, angry demeanor, and I could hear the apprehension in his thoughts. Sometimes he would clear out and leave me to sulk alone; sometimes he would take me hunting, or insist on a lesson of some sort, but these were diversions. They didn't address the underlying problem: that I could sometimes sense the loss of my soul. I could feel its absence in the way I reacted to things — things I _knew_ and remembered my old reactions to. I was no longer so easily touched, no longer able to express subtle emotion; what other explanation could there be?

But it was fine. I was resigned to this new life. And while this soulless body had its disadvantages, it had advantages as well. I tried to focus on the speed and strength, my acute senses, and how I could now run in three dimensions rather than two. I tried to learn as much as I could from Carlisle, adopting some of his routines. Now that the pictures were on the walls, I spent each morning telling myself the story of my life. "I was born in Chicago in June, 1901…" I whispered, pointing at my baby picture and speaking with the same tone and inflection that Carlisle had used all those weeks ago in front of his paintings. It already sounded like myth to me, rather than memory. I retold my story every day, realizing that as the memories faded, this chronicle would be all I had left.

I finished earlier than usual and went downstairs to the music room to put the final photo on a shelf in there. The room had been completely transformed in the past weeks. That beautiful, perfect piano was still the centerpiece. _My_ piano — my joy, my sanity, my salvation. However, it was no longer the only piece of furniture in the room. Now there were bookcases lining the wall on either side of the window, and a small desk nestled under it so I could look outside toward the creek as I sat. My books were mostly downstairs now. The shelf space that wasn't filled with books housed more pictures in handmade frames and a series of flat boxes. Each box had an apothecary label on its end, listing the composer whose sheet music lay within. The boxes were in alphabetical order, and the music within them was organized by date. I now had nearly a hundred pieces of music to chose from on a daily basis, and I could find any of them in a second with the filing system Carlisle and I had devised. I left the room, caressing the warm wood of the piano as I passed, silently promising I'd be back soon.

I went to Carlisle's study, but found it empty. I stilled, listening. I heard rhythmic scratching and muted, quiet thoughts… he was writing somewhere in the house. I followed the sound upstairs, entering his room to find it too was empty. The sound was still coming from above me.

"Carlisle?" I asked quietly.

His pen stilled. "I'm upstairs."

"I _am_ upstairs," I replied, looking around.

"Go out my window, and enter the window above it to the left."

I followed his instructions, letting myself into the attic. I found Carlisle sitting at a desk. A row of file cabinets lined the wall to his right, and bookcases on the wall behind him housed a collection of legal texts that more than rivaled those in my father's study. It looked like Carlisle was writing a letter.

"What's all this?" I asked.

"This is the international headquarters of CC Enterprises, Inc.," he said, finishing the sentence he was writing and then looking up, smiling. I raised an eyebrow. "Since I have to reinvent my identity every decade or so, it's easier if I don't personally own my property. I'd have to find a way to inherit it after each demise. So the corporation owns everything, and I just change the ownership over to my new identity as necessary. Since much of what I do up here involves illegally forging new papers for myself, it seems best to make it hard to reach, in case anyone stumbles across my home while I'm at work. So I typically make the corporate office in a room without a door. I covered over the attic stairs in this home when I moved in."

"I've never known you to be up here," I remarked, confused that he could keep something so large from me.

"I'm up here almost every morning, I'm just usually done by the time you leave your room. I'm actually writing to Mr. Campbell at the moment, but I needed to look up an inheritance tax statute, and all my law books are up here."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes, we're just trying to determine the best way to protect your inheritance. He's suggesting that we place it into a conservatorship account, tied to an investment bank. But if the investors were at all unscrupulous, they could rob you blind before we saw what was happening, unless we constantly reviewed their efforts. I was going to talk to you about another option. You could found a corporation, not unlike my own. Then your home could be rented, and the income wouldn't be taxed as personal income, but could pay for a manager to look over all your investments, and would likely still increase your assets. For the time being, I could ask my asset manager to manage your accounts as well. We'd keep everything separate, of course; I just know him, trust him, and pay him enough that he doesn't ask uncomfortable questions. If you approve that plan, it would offer an advantage when you need to reinvent yourself next year; everything would already be set."

I groaned inwardly, having vague déjà vu of conversations between my father and me about assets and careers and 'financial security'. Wasn't one of the benefits of being a mythological monster the ability to avoid such mundane concerns? I looked up at the ceiling and composed myself… I didn't want to hurt Carlisle's feelings just because this crap bored me to tears. "That sounds good. I don't really know anything about investments. I guess I'll follow your lead, until I learn enough to make my own decisions about it. If this is what you've settled on as the best way after a few hundred years, that seems like a good start to me."

"Good. I'll suggest it to him, and put him in touch with my asset manager to draw up the incorporation paperwork. And when it's drafted, I'll take you through it item by item so you understand why it's set up the way it is. We'll use my paperwork as a template."

I sighed. Clearly I was going to have to feign an interest in my financial future. "Were there any problems with the inventory?" I asked.

"No, everything was accounted for except the heart necklace." Carlisle chuckled softly. "He wrote me several weeks ago fairly panicked about _that_ , but I assured him you had it. I told him that your mother had worn it to the hospital, and asked one of the nurses to transfer it to you when she felt herself slipping. I explained that she had told you the story of how your father had bought it for her when you were born, and that you decided to keep it with you after she died. It's fairly close to the truth…"

"And that sounds like her, actually. Did he accept that explanation?"

"He did. He told me that he'll be sending you a complete inventory with approximate values; he wants you to list any items you want to liquidate, so he can hire an estate auctioneer if necessary. If you chose to rent it, I'd recommend leaving it furnished, but removing any personal effects. And anything you don't want to keep yourself that would likely disappear with the first tenets may as well be liquidated now. He also asked me to wish you a speedy recovery from your lingering pneumonia… and he hopes you are enjoying your private nurse," he smirked a little.

"I have a private nurse?" I asked.

"Well, of course; there's no other way I could leave you to meet him, if that becomes necessary. Of course, I'm paying for that out of my own pocket, since your estate is still tied up, and I am such a close family friend."

"Thanks for that," I smiled.

"It was the least I could do."

"What is she called? In case he asks me when we finally meet."

"Coleen O'Malley, a nurse I worked with in Boston. Of course, he doesn't know that was in the 1830s." He laughed softly. "It's a common enough name; if he decides to hunt her down, it should just lead to confusion."

"Does he want to meet you?"

"Professionally, he would like to, but he's frightened. The reason it took them so long to make first contact with us is that Mr. Campbell himself was ill with influenza as well. He recovered rather quickly, so it might not be the same strain as you had. He's afraid of being exposed to your germs, even vicariously through me. It's ironic; you _are_ a threat to him, but certainly not for the reason he's worried about. It's working to our advantage, though. He's very accepting of any medical delay we request, and the delays he's causing are just buying you more time to gain control before you have to meet him, without raising suspicions. I was able to give him enough details about the house and the contents of the safe that he's completely convinced of my role, and doesn't feel the need to bother you during your recovery. I have his letters here, if you'd like to go through them," he said, motioning to a small box with another apothecary label marked 'Edward Masen's Inheritance, 1918'. "You haven't seemed interested in the details before this, but I'm happy to go over any of it with you."

"I'm still not that interested," I smirked, sounding like a complete brat. I grinned at him and he shook his head, a small smile turning his lips as he continued writing. I was trying to be patient; trying to appreciate the care he took with this, as he took with everything in his life, but I'd reached my limit. I looked around the room, reading the titles of the books as he continued with his letter. This office was so different from his study. It was all practicality and efficiency. There were no pictures on the walls or little artifacts from his travels on the shelves. There _were_ two framed law degrees, one from 1842, and one from 1902. The books were mostly law and tax books, but there were also a few economics books.

"You're a lawyer, too?" I asked.

He looked up at me, and then followed my gaze to his degrees. "No, I never practiced, but I've been to law school several times to gain the knowledge needed to effectively renew my identity and run the corporation. I set things up at the corporation when I first formed it, and know enough to effectively initiate changes to the way my investments are handled. I should really go again; the law is changing constantly. But I don't really enjoy it enough to be more involved. So I hire _real_ lawyers and managers to do the bulk of the work… Mr. Jackson manages my assets now, and he does a commendable job; I get a quarterly report from him listing all my investments, any maintenance that's had to be done to the properties, and so forth."

"Well, now that I know you don't enjoy it, I feel even more grateful that you are willing to handle all this," I said. "I mean that," I reiterated, worried that my snotty attitude earlier might make me seem insincere.

"It's not a problem, Edward. It turns out that Mr. Campbell is quite diligent and seems to genuinely have your best interest at heart, which makes my job quite a bit easier. He's just not… fully aware of your situation, shall we say. Therefore, he can't make the best choices for you. My knowledge is sufficient to get things set up. You will at some point have to decide whether to rent the house, or just have a management company maintain it. The latter can get rather expensive without the lease income to offset upkeep. Homes can be expensive to maintain. You could also sell it, but there may be an opportunity to use it down the road when your control is better."

"Okay, I'll think about it," I said, not really wanting to, but realizing that Carlisle's care with his finances had afforded me my piano, sheet music, gramophone records…everything that kept me sane. I would have to learn to care about corporations and 'asset management' if I wanted to 'maintain the lifestyle to which I'd become accustomed' as my father would have put it. I pinched the bridge of my nose. Terrific. Fortunately, enough time had been spent on it today. We fell into silence again as he finished his letter, and I pondered the similarities and differences between Carlisle and Ed Senior. "Carlisle?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you play chess?" He was taken aback by the question, and I heard a fleeting thought about newborns and their attention spans.

"I know how to play, and I have a board in one of those boxes," he said, waving to a stack of moving crates along the far wall of the attic. "But there isn't much time at the hospitals I've worked at to play, and I've never had anyone in my home before, so I haven't had a lot of practice since I left Vienna. Why, would you like to play some time?"

"I was wishing I'd taken my father's board a few days ago, though I didn't think of it when we were at the house. I like to play."

"Well, try the box at the bottom of that stack… if memory serves, that's where mine is. We could set it up in the parlor." His mind was glowing, pleased that I was requesting something that we would clearly do together. I rummaged through the box he indicated while he finished his letter. I found the board, and a small box that held each piece in a separate slot. The pieces were beautiful, clearly hand carved.

"What are these made from?" I asked, holding up a pawn.

"Travertine and onyx; it's from Italy."

"It's an antique?"

"As am I," he said nonchalantly, reading over the last of his letter. He signed it, waved it briefly to dry the ink, then folded it and sealed it in an envelope. He picked up another, addressed to Mr. Jackson, that he'd clearly written earlier.

"Are you already writing to Mr. Jackson about managing my estate?" I asked, a little concerned that he'd written his manager before talking to me.

"No, I was making some adjustments to my beneficiaries, and asking him if he were willing to take on another account. I'm sure he'll say yes, but it's more polite to ask first." He placed the letters in his pocket and took the board. I replaced the pawn to the box.

"Are you going to take those to the post office today?" I asked. His mind flashed with the post office, and then images of children playing in the grass amongst changing leaves, and then a different scene of people dressed in black on a moonlit hillside… and then his mind abruptly filled with a Mozart concert. He was hiding something. "What was that?" I asked.

"I go to the park when I'm in town, and watch the families. Let's head downstairs."

"What was the other scene?"

He paused, contemplating what to say, and decided to simply answer, "Italy."

He jumped out the window to the small balcony below, and I sighed and followed. He didn't want to discuss the seeming random images he associated with the post office. I really couldn't begrudge him his privacy, even though I was so used to knowing everything in his mind that I found it annoying when he kept things from me. I was growing appallingly nosy. I really had to try to check that behavior. Maybe I was just irritated that he was so much better at deflecting his true thoughts than I was at tuning them out. I really should practice more.

Once in the parlor, Carlisle set the board up on a small side table between the two armchairs in front of the hearth. "Did you want a game of chess now, or after you play?"

"Later, I think. I want to pull out that Debussy that you purchased yesterday."

"We should hunt early, too; yesterday's meal was too small for you. Your eyes are already darkening. We should probably head northwest; game is getting sparse around here."

"Hmmm. Wonder whose fault that is…" I said, walking into the music room. The local herds were in better shape when Carlisle was able to get by with one buck a fortnight. My once or twice daily meals were taking a toll on the local wildlife. "Getting to a new area sounds good; I'd like the change of scenery anyway. Let me play for a few hours, and then we can head out."

Carlisle retrieved a book from his study… Les Miserables… and then sat in the parlor as I made my selections from my shelves. I removed a Bach concerto, and then skipped over the C's and removed the new Debussy. I heard the concern in Carlisle's mind as he noted the pattern he'd witnessed over the last several weeks but I ignored his anxiety, and his theories as to why I always skipped the C's. I removed a Liszt and a Mozart. I sat at the piano, playing the Mozart first to warm myself up. Mozart always brought simple happiness to both of us, and I could hear the worry in Carlisle's mind dissolve into joy.

And then I spread out the new Debussy. This was my favorite part of my new life: pulling out a new crisp sheet of music that I've never heard before, and had no preconceived ideas about, looking up any notations I didn't already know and teaching myself to play it. It brought satisfaction on so many levels. My new mind was just so quick at interpreting the notes on the page, my fingers so skilled at finding the keys. But the fun lay in the notations. Terms like _pianissimo_ and _adagio_ were ultimately subjective, and allowed a certain creativity in interpretation. If I'd never heard a piece before, I felt an incredible freedom to experiment, and play with the tempo and dynamics. "Clair de lune" was proving a challenging piece, written in a compound triple meter of 9/8 time, with a series of rolling arpeggios that even _I_ had to practice several times to play perfectly smoothly. Depending on how I played with the dynamics I could make it sound sweet and poignant or heartbreaking and laced with expectancy. It was delightful. And the experience of learning a new piece of music was always intensified by the joy and pride it brought Carlisle. He'd moved the furniture in the parlor the second week I had the piano, placing the two armchairs by the hearth, and the sofa next to the wall so that he could watch me play while he read. Now we spent hours in these exact positions every day. I could always tell when I'd hit on the right combination of force and speed, or achieved subtle shifts in timing, based on when I felt the bliss exude from his mind. After listening for a half hour he rose to return his book to the study, thinking to himself that Hugo was far too brutal and depressing for the exquisite music we were experiencing.

"I can switch to Beethoven…something peevish, if you'd like to stick with your book," I suggested as I continued playing.

"No, no. You carry on, I'll find something more appropriate."

"The piece was inspired by a poem…Paul Verlaine."

Carlisle paused. "Really, I have some of his. Which one?"

I stopped playing and turned to face him, raising an eyebrow. "Clair de lune?"

He smiled. "Oh, of course." He retrieved a collection and quickly found the correct poem, reading it aloud for my benefit as well.*

We continued thus until I had played it straight through to my satisfaction several times. I could tell it would become one of my favorites. It was bittersweet and lovely, and appealed to my tousled newborn, yet slightly melancholy, sensibilities. I felt so well satisfied by the time I'd mastered it that I decided against playing the other pieces I'd selected, and simply put all the music away and sunk into the sofa opposite Carlisle, grinning like an idiot… like always. My mind and my dead heart felt completely sated; now it was time to feed my body.

"Are you ready to hunt?" I asked lazily, still reveling in my post-piano glow. He smiled openly at me, enjoying my uncomplicated mood.

"As soon as you are," he answered. He put away his book, and we both put on boots for long-distance travel before we headed into the forest.

We ran far, just enjoying the feeling of stretching our bodies. This was my second favorite part of my new life: sharing a good run with Carlisle. I was faster; there was no longer a debate between us on that issue. But there was something more balanced in his frame that made his stride, his form, a joy to watch. Where I felt lanky and bounding, Carlisle moved with a grace that rivaled dance, and I could appreciate it like any art form. I was actually rather jealous of it. We were both beautiful, of course; that was just an artifact of the venom that brought us into this life. But there was a wisdom and grace in the way that Carlisle carried himself that I admired in my mentor, even when we were doing something so strictly physical as running. I wondered if I would ever gain a similar refinement, given my arrested development.

We ran for more than two hours, ignoring the scent of small prey, before pausing at the top of a glacial hill. A wide marshy valley stretched below us, and on the shores of a broad lake was the largest herd of deer I'd ever seen. We were in for a feast, and Carlisle grinned at me as we headed down the hill. I turned myself over completely to my instincts, realizing that I was really very thirsty. I was preparing to pounce upon my first kill, when we hit the valley floor and the wind abruptly shifted. I heard Carlisle's reaction before I smelled the shimmering, enticing new scent myself, but the scarlet shield that already covered my eyes prevented rational action.

"Edward, NO!" I heard Carlisle scream, his echoing voice reaching me as if it were coming from a distant shore across open water. In my peripheral vision I saw him leap over me in a somersault. The crimson veil over my eyes grew darker, and I raised my nose to the air; suddenly Carlisle's crouching body filled my entire view. "I won't let you past me, Edward. Do you understand? They are _not_ yours!" My mind was abruptly filled with screaming humans and feeding Volturi — a familiar horror. But unlike the last time Carlisle had used this vision to shock me out of a feeding frenzy, I found myself watching the vampires, not the humans. And then I remembered the flavor of my own blood, as I once experienced it in Carlisle's memory. Venom flooded my mouth.

I crouched and snarled at him, realizing that the new prey was directly behind him. He was blocking my way, purposefully placing himself between my quarry and me; it was not to be tolerated. "MOVE!" I growled, surprised by the viciousness of my voice, and the snapping of my jaws.

His eyes were sad, but his face grew grim and determined. The Italian hillside flashed through his mind before he blocked it out with the memory of my own playing that morning. "You will have to go through me to get to them, Edward. I recommend _against_ it." His voice was calm, but held a razor's edge.

"I am stronger _and_ faster than you, old man. Move aside, NOW!" I spat.

He tilted his head slightly, and deepened his defensive posture. He was waiting, using his infuriatingly _infinite_ patience against me once again. All I felt was raw urgency. I was done waiting. I screeched my defiance, and lunged.

* * *

_*Moonlight_

_Your soul is a select landscape_  
Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go  
Playing the lute and dancing and almost  
Sad beneath their fantastic disguises.

_All sing in a minor key_  
Of victorious love and the opportune life,  
They do not seem to believe in their happiness  
And their song mingles with the moonlight,

_With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful,_  
That sets the birds dreaming in the trees  
And the fountains sobbing in ecstasy,  
The tall slender fountains among marble statues.

_Paul Verlaine, 1869_

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_AN: Music:[Debussy's - Clair de lune](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LXl4y6D-QI)_


	10. Chapter 10

 AN: SM still owns the boys. Coleen561 is still a fab beta. The music for this chapter can be found on the [web playlist](http://grooveshark.com/#!/playlist/Prelude+In+C+By+ATONAU/60866524) (thanks NixHaw!).

 

  


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CPOV

As soon as I smelled the hunters… that mix of human blood and gunpowder… my heart sank. What were they doing here? We were in the middle of nowhere, several inches of snow blanketing the wilderness. It hadn't even occurred to me to check the valley for humans. I'd been so careful, for so long; I'd kept Edward safe, despite our proximity to the city, and now, _here_ , deep in the forests of northern Minnesota, my worst fears were being realized.

I'd dreaded this moment for weeks, longer even… since he saw the moment of his transformation in my memory and related more to the vampire than the victim. I suspected then that he was drifting too far from his prior life for a mental appeal to his humanity to be an effective way to stop his instincts. I'd been so _lucky_ that first day, being able to stop him with no show of force. Today would not be so straightforward. The vision of the Volturi feeding had only seemed to encourage his bloodlust. If he were not going to empathize with the humans in those visions, then nothing I could show him from my years with the Volturi would help; and I had nothing worse in my experience to draw on.

I'd prepared myself for this moment, but I'd hoped it would never come — that I would never be forced to face off with my best friend, my companion, my… son. The thought of facing him was frightening… but the thought of losing him was _terrifying_. Facing him was the only option, and I did not take it lightly. He _was_ faster and stronger than me. But those issues could be easily dealt with if it weren't for his gift. _That_ was what had driven me to the park during my visits to town…the knowledge that I would have to be so fine-tuned a fighter that my actions were essentially automatic — all intuition and preplanned contingencies. Any strategy I tried to form in his presence would be heard mentally and countered before I'd have a chance to act on it. So for weeks now, since I'd delivered the piano, I'd used my time in town to review all of the combat training I'd learned while with the Volturi.

Eleazar had been a brilliant instructor and strategist. Most training had occurred in the castle, but he'd taken us out into the countryside at night to simulate real battles. I remembered his lessons well: use the landscape, do the unexpected, stay focused, and keep your enemy in front of you. I'd spent hours during the last few weeks sitting in the park, reviewing techniques, creating contingencies, and assessing Edward's strengths and weaknesses. I'd created scenarios in my mind of how we might meet in combat, and then strategies for dealing with each one… preparing, always preparing. If I'd merely had to defend myself, I could have done it easily. I was sure I could deflect his attacks until he got bored with fighting. But I knew the only reason we'd battle in earnest would be if there were humans to safeguard. In order to keep my promise and protect him from his own instincts, I would have to actually subdue him; I would have to counteract the scent of the humans. That was an entirely more complicated dilemma… and the moment was now upon me.

I blocked him from my mind using the first thing I could think of: his playing that very morning, when his face glowed with joy and achievement and concentration, rather than the feral malice and fury that twisted his features around his black eyes now. But then I realized that I didn't want either of us to associate that beautiful piece of music with what was about to transpire. As he tried to bait me verbally, I decided to switch to music I'd once heard emanating from a country dance in southern Scotland, as I sat in the nearby woods a few years after my transformation. The playing was poor and the instruments had not held their tune. If I couldn't cripple him with images of Volturi horrors, maybe the horrors of really bad music would affect him.

I appraised him from my crouch, waiting. My beautiful boy — normally a shining, radiant, amusing if prickly inspiration to me — was reduced to a snarling, snapping beast. His rage was building, and I watched his muscles clench and the tendons in his neck bulge as he reacted to my defensive pose. His nostrils flared and teeth gnashed, and the most horrible expression darkened his face as he threw insults at me. Because of me. I'd reduced him to this state. My selfishness changed him, and my lack of caution placed him in this predicament. And so I would protect him from himself, even if it hurt me… even if it hurt him. _I'm sorry, Edward._

He screamed and lunged at me, and I parried to the left, grabbing his hands and using his momentum to swing him around me and throw him back from where he'd come and slightly to the right, toward the lake. He crashed into a tree, splintering the trunk, and then landed with a _squelch_ into the snow and semi-frozen waterlogged soil. I quickly moved to my right to position myself between him and the hunters; I crouched again, waiting, and trying to keep my mind blank except for the 1665 reel. Edward stood, furious and covered in reeking mud; his obsidian eyes flashed as he screeched at me. Abruptly, a gunshot sounded about a mile in the distance behind me, and I wondered if Edward could hear their thoughts.

"The prey are frightened," he sneered, grinning. I frowned, wishing I could keep a better hold on my thoughts, which made him laugh… it was not a pleasant sound. His voice sounded odd, almost metallic.

"They aren't prey, Edward. They are people, like you once were, like your parents were, like I was once, long ago," I said cautiously as I shifted, countering his movements.

He frowned, pausing for a moment, a slight look of comprehension crossing his features. I thought for a moment I had him back, and then the wind gusted, bringing a new potent burst of aroma with it. He closed his eyes, throwing his head back with an expression of pure ecstasy. _Lord, what are you doing?_ I prayed. _Have mercy on us… on_ them _! Give me strength…_

"Cut it out, Carlisle," he spat, the ecstasy gone from his face. He leaned forward. I concentrated on the music again, and studied his posture, trying to determine how he would attack next. He didn't. He tried to break past me to my right. Damn, he was so fast… I barely saw it in time. I ran straight toward the lake to intercept him, pouncing. I grabbed the shoulders of his shirt, tearing it as I twisted him to face me and we toppled over into a rolling somersault. I pulled my legs up between us as we rolled, and when I was on my back I abruptly straightened my legs, catapulting him toward the lake again. I sprang up and ran to follow, heavy footfalls pounding in the snow, sending it flying behind me. I found him just as he regained his feet. He lunged at me, and I didn't have time to position myself to deflect it entirely. He hit me with enough force to send me into a neighboring tree, but I was able to grab the hair at the base of his neck and take a bit of it with me. He howled in rage and pain. Snow collapsed from the tree branches as I crashed into the trunk, obscuring my view for a moment, and then he was upon me again; he bit my arm before I twisted my body, slid my right leg behind his, and forced him backwards against it. He fell on his back with a thud and I grabbed his ankle and swung him around by it and threw him again. He landed in the reeds, a plume of snow rising and falling, and then he was up again, running toward me, _furious_. The monster was etched on his every feature, and he was so feral at this point he was completely beyond speech as he tore through snow to get to me. The hunt was all but forgotten. Perhaps my luck was changing.

He lunged at my neck, jaws snapping. I crouched and leaned right, throwing my hands up together to push him up and over me, but he was able to take a bite out of my shoulder on his way. I shrieked in pain, and twisted to watch where he fell. Scraps of my shirt fluttered down through the air, contrasting with the heavy projectile of Edward, crashing into the ground and causing another cloud of snow to rise and fall like a breath. I groaned.

 _No! No! NO! I'm not between them anymore! Now_ HE'S _closer to the hunters . . ._

Edward's head snapped up at this thought, and I cursed myself, concentrating again on that bloody reel, which I was _really_ starting to hate. I was already running at full speed when he scrambled to his feet, moving toward the east, toward the hunters, rather than to me. I tackled his legs and then tried to move up his body as he pushed himself up off the ground.

This had to end now, before he did any more damage to me and I couldn't compensate for his speed and tenacity. I jumped and swung my leg between his knees and out to the right, knocking his right leg out from under him while planting my other knee into his left thigh, throwing him forward. As he fell I pinned his arms up behind him. He landed face down in the snow with a soft _thunk_. It had happened in a fraction of a second, but I had him firmly beneath me. He attempted to get his right leg under him again, but I kept it hooked over mine, and dug my heel into the snow to keep his legs splayed. He tried to twist his torso back and forth, muffled growls emanating from the snow. I leaned forward, my head just above his neck, forcing his shoulders deeper into the snow. He was secured, and I was over him. Thankfully I out-weighed him enough that he couldn't throw me off easily. Perhaps this was over now, and I could just keep him pinned like this until the hunters left and the air was clean again.

He shrieked into the snow, his jaws snapping and his fingers reaching behind him, grasping for any part of my head they could reach. He was pinned, but I was still vulnerable in this position. He grasped my ear and squeezed, and as I shifted away from his hand, my leg slipped, and he was able to get his right leg under him a bit more. I sighed. NO, this was not over; I was not going to be able to hold him like this indefinitely.

 _I'm sorry, Edward._ I bit into his right shoulder and pulled, creating another tear in his shirt and a matching one in his shoulder-blade, which ran an inch deep and several inches long. It would separate his arm from his body if it continued to rip away. He howled in pain, and I used the moment to release his torso, twist my body, and bite his left calf, creating a similar, if shallower, wound. He screeched, twisting violently to throw me off. I rolled several times through the snow before scrambling to my feet. We both stood, facing off again. I feinted right and then lunged, but he must have seen it in my head, because he swung his good arm at me, making perfect contact with my face and sending me backwards, tumbling through the air. By some miracle, I twisted my body so I could land on my feet, and was running toward him again as he turned and ran toward the hunters. Even with his wounded leg, I could barely keep up with him, and I was worried I still wouldn't be able to overtake him. In desperation, I remembered the first vision I'd ever sent him: the false image of his bleeding, dying mother, focusing on her pained and terrorized face. He stumbled, and twisted his leg, deepening the rip I'd initiated there. He howled and stumbled again, and I caught him.

I grasped him from behind, pinning his arms back, and arching backward until his feet were lifted off the ground. I started carrying him toward the water. As soon as he read my intentions he started thrashing and hissing, trying to turn and snap his jaws at my face. I was afraid he was going to tear his own arm off in his effort to get away from me. I started to run awkwardly, realizing that my grip on him was slipping. My feet broke through the thin sheet of ice that covered the shore of the lake, and I kept moving deeper as snow began to fall lightly. Edward seemed truly terrified now, but it was finally over. My grip was not going to slip before he was submerged.

"You may be stronger and faster than me, young man, but I have greater skills, and I weigh more."

I plunged in, expelling the air in my lungs so that I sank as quickly as possible, and kept pushing my feet along the bottom to move us into deeper and deeper water. Edward's shredded shirt floated and danced in the water as he thrashed against my chest.

_Calm down, Edward! The water can't hurt you. You can't drown. Just take a breath and cleanse your senses… Think back to my memories, when I tried to drown myself. It didn't work. The fresh water won't burn the way the sea burned my nose. It will be uncomfortable, but it won't harm you… Just take a breath, Edward._

He froze briefly, listening to my thoughts, but then continued to twist and struggle against me.

 _I'll do it first. See?_ I took in a lungful of water and held it. It felt cold and heavy in my body, and I resisted the urge to cough it out. _Read my thoughts, Edward, I'm fine. It's heavy, and uncomfortable, and the flavor is terrible, but I'm fine._

He stilled briefly again, and then continued to resist. I shook my head, and adjusted my grasp on him so that I was pinning his arms to his sides and could link my hands over his abdomen, holding his back close to my chest. His legs flailed in the water in front of him, but his torso was considerably more still, despite his continuing struggles. I made a fist with my left hand, covered it with my right, and abruptly tightened my hold on him, pulling my fist up and into his body, just below his sternum. Large bubbles escaped his mouth, and he instinctively sucked in another breath when I loosened my hold — this time of water.

The effect was immediate.

He stiffened; he choked on the water and took in another breath, choked on that one and then took another. His chest heaved as he took in breath after breath of clear water. And then he stilled completely, and I felt him go limp, and sink back into my chest. Relief flooded through me.

 _You're okay, Edward. You're okay. I've got you, and you're going to be fine._ I kept repeating these thoughts, like a mantra, as I felt him return to himself, the beast finally at bay. I stopped remembering that infernal reel, and tried to open my mind completely to him. I showed him my relief that he was still here with me, how proud I was of all his achievements… even, ironically, the fact that he'd managed two good swipes at me during his first fight. I adjusted my grip, changing my cage-like hold to more of an embrace, and felt his body begin to shake with sobs. He threw his head back against my shoulder, and sunk further into my chest. _Shhhh. Oh Edward, I'm so sorry you're hurt, but it's all repairable. Don't worry; I'll fix every wound. You'll be able to run again. There's no permanent damage to either of us. We're going to be fine._ I adjusted my embrace again, wrapping an arm over his shoulder, and smoothing his hair, trying to calm him. _Shhh. We're fine…we're fine._

After several minutes, he turned in my arms, not trying to escape, but just face me. I allowed it, and saw the extent of the anguish on his features. My heart clenched. He looked in my eyes, and mouthed, "I'm sorry…"

 _Oh, my dear boy._ I smoothed his hair back and held my hand on the back of his neck. _You've done nothing wrong._ He scowled and looked away. _Edward, really... We're fine!_

He looked at me, his face at once sorrowful and skeptical. I brushed his bangs back again…a hopeless attempt with the water swaying them this way and that, and I smiled my relief at him. I was so grateful that I hadn't lost him; I was almost overcome.

_We'll stay down here until they're gone. Can you hear their thoughts still?_

He looked to the east and then back to me, nodding.

 _Let me know when they're gone._ He nodded again, and then shuddered. I heard a muffled whimper, and he leaned into me. I wrapped one arm over his shoulder, and held him to my side, careful of his injuries. I looked up, watching the snow fall onto the surface of the lake. I felt his arm come up around my waist, clinging to me as he fought his sobs. _Shhhh. We're fine… We're fine._

Over time the snow ceased, and the light changed, first becoming brighter and then slowly fading. Edward straightened up, and I loosened my hold on his shoulder. He looked to the east, and then back at me. _They're gone?_ He nodded. _Stay here and let me check the air. I'll be back in a few minutes to tell you if it's safe._

I swam to the surface, struggling against my own weight, my shoulder stinging with the effort. I reached the shore and climbed out, bending over to retch the water out of my body. It took several minutes to clear it all, and for me to feel confident that I'd be able to smell whatever was on the air. I stood and took a deep breath, coughing out some residual water, and then sampling the air. It was clear… the wind was still coming from the east, and was completely clear. A new surge of relief swelled through me. The threat was past, and dusk was upon us. I held my breath and went back into the lake to retrieve Edward. _Just walk on the lake bed, Edward… your arm is too injured to try to swim. Follow me._ I led him back to shore, and supported him as knelt and choked and sputtered the water from his lungs. He couldn't move his injured arm at all. After several minutes, he spoke with a scratchy voice.

"I'm so sorry, Carlisle…"

"Edward, don't be ridiculous. Now sit down, and let me fix the damage I've done to you."

He frowned. "How _does_ one repair a stone body?" he asked.

"Like all good beasts, we lick our wounds," I said as I knelt behind him and slid my fingers into the tear in his shirt. I ripped it further and pushed the scraps away so I had clear access to the tear in his flesh. He looked over his shoulder at me and raised an eyebrow, silently asking me if I were serious. "Venom heals," I explained with a quick smile. "Now hold still; this is going to feel a little strange."

I lowered my mouth to his wound, sucked, and then spat out the dirt and water that was lodged deep in it onto the snow. I repeated this several times, until I was sure the wound was clean. Edward stiffened and I paused.

"Is it okay? Am I hurting you?"

"No, it's fine. Strange…like you said. Your mouth feels warm…"

"You must be cold if _my_ mouth feels warm," I laughed, my relief and happiness seeping into my voice. I placed my hands on either side of the wound and lined up the edges. It was true; he was cold. The remnants of his drenched shirt were freezing to his body. I covered his wound with my mouth again, and then slipped my tongue deep into it, laving the crevices with venom before coating the shallower portions of the laceration. When I was confident that the entire interior of the gash was lathered in venom, I pulled my mouth back and brought my hands together, sealing the tear. Edward shuddered slightly as I examined his shoulder. I licked the cut, smoothing it with my tongue so the scar would be minimized. After about five minutes, the wound was completely sealed.

"Move your arm, please."

He did, rotating it stiffly, and I studied the cut, applying more venom as he stretched the scar. After several minutes, he had a full range of motion again, and the tear did not reopen as he stretched. I moved in front of him. "Lean back on your elbows and give me your left calf." He complied and I repeated my ministrations, somewhat self-consciously as he watched me intently. After ten minutes, he was able to stand on the leg and test it.

"Good as new," he said, clearly amazed. "Now it's your turn."

"My turn? Oh, my shoulder, I'd almost forgotten…"

"I hadn't," he said darkly. "Sit down…let's see if I've learned anything." He knelt on one knee behind me and tore my shirt open over my shoulder. He gasped slightly when he saw the bite. "I'm sorry, Carlisle."

"Stop, Edward; it will be fine."

He lowered his mouth to my shoulder and sucked the wound clean. It _was_ warm, and the pressure was pleasant as the venom started to soothe the injured flesh. I sighed and closed my eyes as he continued to work. I'd ignored the sting of his bite for hours, but now that there was relief, it really felt good. My whole body felt warmer as his touch and venom healed my body, and my relief and happiness healed my soul. He was here. No one had been killed, and he was still here. The weight that had knotted in my stomach was finally dissipating. I felt elated… light. I let out another relieved breath and allowed the tension to seep from every muscle as Edward worked over my shoulder. He coated the bite with venom, massaged the edges of the wound together, and repeated his actions until there was no sting left.

"Now your arm," he said, moving in front of me. I raised my right arm and helped push the sleeve up past my elbow. He studied the bite, just below my elbow, and then lowered his mouth onto it, his eyes meeting mine as he sucked. They were still black with thirst. He straightened up abruptly and removed something from his mouth. "How did you get tree bark inside the wound?"

I chuckled. "Well, someone _did_ throw me against a tree, though that was before the bite, I think. It must have happened when we were wrestling on the ground," I said lightly. He glowered. He returned his mouth to the wound, his eyes dark and worried. "Edward, I was joking. You shouldn't feel bad about this." He spit again, and returned his mouth to the wound, running his tongue along the curve of the bite, and not meeting my eyes. I sighed, and my euphoria and relief darkened into a more somber mood as I realized that I was just beginning to see the fallout from this day. Our physical wounds could be healed within a half hour, and I was already over the entire episode, but Edward was clearly suffering. I studied him as he worked the wound over. His brow was furrowed, and he continued to look anywhere but at me.

"Edward…" I started.

"Flex your wrist," he interrupted. He studied the wound, rubbing his fingers over it as I silently complied, and then lowered his mouth again. I felt no warmth this time. He stood abruptly. "Try it now."

I rotated my wrist and bent my elbow. "It feels good. Thank you, Edward," I smiled at him, but knew it did not reach my eyes, or my heart — I was too worried about him. He nodded curtly, but said nothing. I sighed and looked around; darkness had fallen, and the light of the quarter moon painted the snow with a faint blue. I needed to get Edward fed before we tried to talk about this; his reactions at the moment seemed far too pessimistic to be productive. He glared at me as he heard my reflection, and I debated whether it would be easier on him if I started blocking my thoughts again.

"Not the reel!" he said suddenly, eyes wide. "Block me or don't, that's your choice, but please… I never want to hear that blasted reel again." His hands were raised in surrender.

I chuckled, looking at the ground. "Don't worry, neither do I. It was bad enough in 1665!" I looked up at him; at least he was meeting my eyes again. I stepped toward him tentatively, and noticed that he rocked back on his heels and looked away, as if he were contemplating stepping back. I paused, but then the expression on his face drew me in. It was the same as it had been in the lake. It was subdued now, but the same: muted, quiet anguish. I walked to him and placed my hand on the nape of his neck; I looked him in the eyes, waiting for his to meet mine. _Edward…_ He took a steadying breath and looked into my face. "I think, with everything we've been through, I'd rather _not_ block you right now. I'd rather… well, I'd rather not keep you out. But if I'm going to leave my thoughts open to you, I'd appreciate it if you would _try_ not to resent them." His mouth formed a grim line, but he nodded. "Thank you." I looked over my shoulder, to the west, and took a deep breath. Looking back at Edward I asked, "Do you want to go after the herd? They've moved west… we'd be up wind, so we might spook them, but the breeze has died down… we might be okay."

"Whatever you think is best…I just need something soon… _really soon,_ Carlisle…"

"Okay," I clapped his shoulder. "Follow me."

I ran west, following the old trail of the deer. We were hours behind them, and the fresh snow obscured part of their trail, but with the air so still we were unlikely to find another scent quickly. I could hear Edward running at my right and a few strides behind me. I wished, as I so often did, that I could share his gift, hear his thoughts.

"Trust me, you don't," he said as he ran, catching up so we were side by side.

_At least I would understand why you're so upset. We're fine, Edward! And the hunters are too. They even have a scary story to tell back at the public house…_

I saw him shake his head out of the corner of my eye.

_You did nothing wrong. You're still so young, you're…wait. Did you smell that?_

I stopped and turned to my left. A new scent was drifting down the side of the valley.

 _This way._ I led him up the hill. At its crest, the wind from the south carried the scent of moose… and mountain lion.

_You take the lion, but try not to scare the herd off too far…you need several kills tonight. I'll take one of the…_

"Carlisle," he interrupted. I was crouched and ready to stalk, but when I looked at him, he just stood with his arms crossed on his chest, a nearly frantic look on his face. His eyes were so dark, and his thirst was written all over his face, but he held his body back, stiffly. "Go check, please…" he whispered.

"Edward?" I whispered back.

"Go to the bottom of the hill and see if the wind changes… see if it's safe…" He whispered so softly I had to strain to hear.

I looked back down the hill, nodding. _All right. All right, Edward… you stay here until I check._ He was terrified. I moved stealthily to the bottom of the hill. The wind shifted slightly, but there were no new scents. Of course there weren't. It was dark. No humans would be out here now. But Edward was spooked, and I needed to reassure him. _All's clear. Come down to my right, the cat is that way._ He ignored that, and was by my side in a minute. I studied him carefully. _Are you holding your breath?_

He let the breath out and looked at me sheepishly. "I was monitoring the scents through your mind. It makes them muted…"

"Edward. It's safe. Go kill your cat," I said in an exasperated whisper. Was he really this shaken? He hadn't been this insecure on his first day… He gave me a hurt look and stalked after it. He was taking this so hard. I needed to empathize more, but I just couldn't understand why he was so upset. We were fine…

I quickly killed a moose and then doubled back to find Edward. I passed the drained and discarded carcass of the mountain lion, and caught his scent further along. I caught up to him as he downed a moose.

_Is that your second kill?_

He continued drinking and held up three fingers.

_Your third? Good. You needed it._

I sat back against a tree as he finished his meal. He eventually came over and sat by me, his eyes much lighter. They were already losing some of their red, shifting toward vermillion.

"Better?"

"A bit. The thirst is gone at least."

"Ready to head home?"

"Slowly… I feel sloshy."

I laughed. "A gentle jog, then." He sat next to me. His face troubled.

_Do you want to talk now, or later?_

He sighed. "Later… mostly. But for now… I'm so sorry, Carlisle."

"Edward, stop; it's nothing you need…"

"DON'T! Don't act like the fact that I attacked my _only_ friend is acceptable. Don't act like the fact that I failed my first real test with a human scent on the air isn't disappointing to you. Don't act like _nothing_ happened!"

I froze, shocked.

"You're upset that you attacked me? _Of course_ you attacked me, Edward! I placed myself between you and your prey!"

"They shouldn't have been my prey, Carlisle!"

"Any newborn would have gone after them, Edward. You expect too much of yourself."

He shook his head. "No. You forget, Carlisle, I can see your thoughts… all your trips down memory lane. You've thought of your first months a lot since I've been here. And you _never_ would have made that mistake. _Never._ And I nearly took your head off!"

I scoffed. "Edward, please… give me a little credit. At no time was I in danger of losing my head."

He looked away, struggling with his anger. "You are missing the point, Carlisle!"

"I did you _much_ more damage," I continued, "I should be apologizing to you."

He scowled. "Nothing you did to me would have been necessary if I hadn't _attacked_ you, Carlisle. This was _my_ nearly fatal mistake, and you refuse to acknowledge it."

"Edward, you're overreacting…"

He raised his hand and jumped to his feet, abruptly cutting me off. I froze and watched him as he closed his eyes and struggled to control his temper. His free hand pinched the bridge of his nose, as though my reassurances were giving him a headache. After a moment he dropped both arms to his side and gave me the most defeated, resigned look I'd ever seen on his face. A cold fear settled over me, weighing me down.

"Let's go home, Carlisle," he said quietly, dismissing any hope of conversation. He walked to the southeast, and I turned as he passed me, frozen in place. In the past those words had elicited such elation in me. Now as I watched him walk away from me through the snow, his tattered shirt marking him as battle worn, I felt only dread. I was losing him…


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to my awesome beta, Coleen561, who actually assigned me homework this chapter so I would get the timeline right. Any time I try to cheat or be vague, she calls me out; it's great!

CPOV

Our run back from Minnesota was quiet. We arrived at the house shortly before dawn; the water we'd been drenched with had long since frozen and sublimated off us. Edward expelled the breath he'd been holding as we approached the city, and told me to go inside.

"You bathe first, Carlisle. I'll bring some more wood in and make a fire."

I thought nothing of it. I was grateful to come downstairs later, clean and dry, to find our shoes propped up on the hearth, drying. He'd scooted my chair close to the roaring fire, and it was waiting for me, heated and welcoming with my book sitting on the cushion. I thanked him warmly and saw him nod his head as he climbed the stairs for his own bath. I settled into reading my book, thinking he was getting over his umbrage. I should have known better. He came down a half hour later, washed and in clean clothes and bare feet. I'd thought he was going to sit in the other chair… join me as he so often did. But instead he approached the fireplace and threw all our clothes from the night before onto the blaze. He stood and watched the wool smoke and the flame change color as the mineral dyes in the fabrics were consumed. He stared into the flames until the clothing had withered to tan ash, and then he turned and walked into the music room. I just stared after him, dread filling the pit of my stomach again.

He spent that day, and the next, sitting at his desk, looking out the window. Everything about his posture... the way his hands were spread and pressed flat against the top of his desk, the hunch in his shoulders, the furrow in his brow… it all forbade approach. I would go to the doorway to check on him, and see only his eyes move in my direction. The rest of his body seemed poised for flight, only relaxing slightly as I backed away. I left him completely alone that first day, even trying to keep my thoughts quiet, since my assurances in the forest had only served to upset him. He came out of the music room four times: thrice to stoke the fire or bring in more wood, once, after dark, to hunt. On the afternoon of the second day, I tried with more determination to approach him.

I drew near the doorway. "Edward..."

"Not yet," was all he said, eyes still gazing at the stream outside.

"But Edward…"

"Not yet!" He turned to me and the pain on his face stopped me in my place. I couldn't force myself on him. He was a private man. I understood this; I was one too. I sighed and retreated to my study, allowing the fire in the parlor to die down. If he wanted to be alone to process his thoughts, I'd respect that, though it didn't seem like what he truly needed. I picked up the Odyssey, knowing he liked it when I read in a language he didn't understand. I wistfully yearned for Athena to visit me, as she had Odysseus, to help _me_ navigate the intricacies of life with my son… well, my Edward. I would heed her wisdom more than Odysseus had. Edward was obviously trying to come to terms with what had happened in the forest, but I wished he'd talk to me about it, understand that I wasn't disappointed, and realize that such minor slips were to be expected. I heard him snort in the other room.

I was still unsure as to the exact nature of the problem, but that it was serious I no longer doubted. I hated this. I hated that we'd shifted so quickly from a comfortable existence filled with music and conversation and laughter to one where I was afraid to say or _think_ anything for fear of alienating him further. What was the problem? Was I not offering enough support and acceptance? Was he in shock? Until he was willing to talk to me, there was little I could do. The silence in the house was deafening and oppressive, and I avoided even making those sounds that I'd once used to fend off Solitude, for fear of annoying him. We were both prisoners of his silence.

The house grew dark and cold again, but it fit my mood; I did nothing to alter the impending gloom, though I wished it away. Finally, I heard him move into the parlor. He re-lit the fire, moved the chairs closer to the hearth, and then left the house. I heard chopping, and then he came in and piled more wood next to the fireplace. He went back into the music room, and I expected that would be the extent of his activity for the next several hours. But instead I heard the piano bench being pulled out, and the soft notes of Bach began drifting through the house. It was the Air in D major… one of the first pieces of music I'd brought home for him after acquiring the piano. It was melancholy, but soothing.

_Thank you, Edward._

I moved to my chair in the parlor, staying out of sight near the fireplace, rather than moving to the sofa where I normally watched him play. This music seemed to be his way of offering a gentle truce, and I didn't want to overstep my part. The parlor was neutral territory between our rooms, but the sofa, while technically in the parlor, had such a broad view of the music room it felt intrusive. I wanted to meet him in the middle, if he were willing. He continued to play for a few hours — all pieces that he'd played many times, mostly Bach and Beethoven. Then he closed the piano up and came to stand behind his chair by the fireplace. He made no move to sit. I looked up at him, trying to decipher the emotions behind his expression. Resignation. Hurt.

"Thank you for playing, Edward."

"You're welcome."

I started to speak again, but he left the room abruptly and went upstairs to his room, closing the door quietly, leaving me in the wake of his silence again.

Days slipped by, and all that had been shimmering and bright in my life faded to gray. It was not as black as it had once been, perhaps, but I'd become so accustomed to the glistening colors of Edward's moods — his laughter and his challenges — that the gray fog which had descended on him and enveloped me left me cold and hopeless. I could not find my way to him, and he was offering no light to help me. Every attempt I made to gently pull him from his silence made him bolt away from me and hover on the periphery, just outside my reach. He never left me, but he wouldn't allow me to approach him. He wouldn't allow me to show him any kindness. It felt almost as though he were in mourning again, but this time, I didn't know for whom.

We went out every night to hunt in silence. Days were spent in the house, circling each other at a distance. The fifth day after the hunt he convinced me that I should get the mail, though I expect he just wanted time away from my fretful thoughts.

He wasn't fighting with me; he wasn't argumentative or teasing. He was barely speaking, but he exuded a guarded sadness and disappointment. How much was directed at himself, and how much was directed at me, I couldn't be sure. I suspected some of both. His eyes, when he allowed me to see them, were haunted and bleak.

He was not belligerent, quite the contrary. He was so… so _accommodating_ … despite his obvious unhappiness; it was heart breaking to behold. He wouldn't speak about anything that mattered, but in every other way, he was trying to address my needs, almost before I registered them myself. If I so much as thought that the room was getting darker, or colder, he would stoke the fire. If I despaired of the silence, or a piece of music crossed my mind, he would sit at the piano or play the gramophone. If I felt lost in my solitude, he'd come down with a book and pretend to read in the next room… never too close, but close enough to offer some restrained comfort. It actually took me a while to notice the pattern. I was so wrapped up in what he wouldn't say that I didn't notice what he was _doing_.

All his quiet attention was soothing in its way, but it felt oddly superficial. As warm as the room felt because of his fire, cold still lingered in my stomach and heart. While the gramophone music banished the silence, I would have rather heard what was going through Edward's mind. He was being kind, but it was too much… and not enough; it was compliance to unasked requests, and refusal of the asked ones. I didn't want him to be this… I didn't want him docile and appeasing and distant. I missed his passion, his challenging remarks, his teasing. All I wanted was for him to be himself: and this he was unwilling to do. As kind as some of his actions were, I could sense he was seething and roiling just below the surface, and not allowing me to see any of it. This was the uneasy calm before the storm. I wanted the tempest already.

As concerned as I was that he was taking what had happened during the hunt too hard, there was something else going on, and that worried me much more. The pattern I'd been watching for weeks was growing worse. He'd played no new sheet music since we got back from Minnesota, and the list of composers he avoided was growing longer… It seemed to focus on his father's favorites. He'd play them on the gramophone, but not the piano, and I didn't understand why. What had changed for him such that he no longer wanted to _play_ these beautiful pieces _,_ he only wanted to _hear_ them? I knew they were among his favorites, but he was essentially holding them at arm's length. It seemed a much more insidious problem than his lack of control when the scent of blood was on the air. He was giving up part of who he was, setting those composers aside… lessening himself and his potential joy. And it had accelerated since the incident — as if the two issues were somehow related — although the avoidance of certain composers had predated that disastrous hunting trip.

The early hours of the next morning found me in the attic, reviewing details of the proposed estate auction from Mr. Campbell. A shadow passed across the open window, and I looked up to see Edward cross the room and sit in the chair across the desk.

"Good morning, Edward," I offered cautiously.

"Carlisle," he answered, nodding. After a few moments of hesitation, he asked, "Which of these tomes on estate and corporate tax law do you think I should start with?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Which word didn't you understand?" he asked, smirking a bit.

I looked at the shelves behind me, and then back at him. "I thought you weren't interested. Why the sudden change of heart?" My mind was contemplating the significance of his request. Perhaps he wanted to wean himself of my involvement. It was obvious how unhappy he was.

He looked away and sighed. "This isn't about me leaving any earlier than we've discussed. I think I've made it abundantly clear recently that I'm not capable of being on my own," he said with a scowl. "This isn't about me leaving at all. This is about me not being such a burden to you, and taking responsibility for my own affairs. You've been wanting to explain this stuff," he gestured to the room, "for ages." That was an overstatement, but I saw his point.

I reached for a book on the top shelf. "Start with this one. It's a good overview, and will define the terms in the paperwork I'm having drawn up by Misters Campbell and Jackson." I handed him the book. "Once you've finished, I can go over the letters and paperwork that pertain to your estate with you."

"Thanks, Carlisle." He took the book, and turned it over in his hand for a moment, thinking. Then he got up and moved to the window.

"Edward, wait. I'd like to talk to you about… about what happened in the forest, and how it's affected you since."

He turned to me slowly. " _Now_ you want to talk? I thought you were the one who wanted to pretend nothing happened."

"Nothing of significance _did_ happen in the woods," I said. He glowered and I quickly continued, "But that's obviously not your view of things, and I'd like it if we could talk about it openly rather than continue to avoid it." _And each other_.

I watched him consider my request. I realized I'd made a mistake, letting him be on his own so long, letting this fester.

"Maybe later. I'll go get some more wood; it's going to be another cold day. The temperature fluctuations are bad for the piano. It's been hard enough to keep it in tune."

"There's plenty of wood, Edward. And I'm fairly certain it's my turn to bring it in. Please sit down."

He hesitated, but then took a step back. "No, I'll bring some in. _That_ I'm capable of. And then I think I'll go for a quick run. I'll hold my breath," he assured me quickly. He was out the window before I could protest.

' _That I'm capable of'…_ I rolled his words over in my mind. So, he was dwelling on what he _wasn't_ capable of then? I sighed and ran my hand through my hair, trying to understand his vague, infrequent words. The way he was avoiding me was bordering on ridiculous. Indecision weighed on my frozen body for a moment, and then I leapt out the window, following the sounds of him chopping. The axe hung in midair for a fraction of a second as he sensed my approach, and then sliced heavily through the log. He turned to face me as he took an armful of wood.

"We need to talk about this, Edward."

He hesitated, and then started walking back toward the house. "Okay," he said, but he didn't stop moving, and I was forced to follow behind him. He stomped the snow off his feet before entering the house again. He crouched by the hearth and started stacking logs in an open pattern. I knelt beside him and spread kindling under his stack. We sat there, shoulder to shoulder as I took the matches and lit the fire, gently coaxing the tiny licks of flame as I also tried to coax words from Edward.

"What happened in the forest…" I began, "it was perfectly natural, Edward." His eyes momentarily grew large, as though he were taking issue with the word 'natural'. "I'm in no way disappointed in you."

He looked away for a moment, tension visible through his whole body. Then he sighed, relaxed, and faced me. "I know you're not," he said sadly.

I was taken aback. "You do?"

"Yes," he said, sitting back on his heels, tapping his temple and looking at me meaningfully.

"Oh… well then…" Edward tilted his head and looked at me with an expression I'd rarely seen on his face, but I _knew_ it. It conveyed the emotions I felt when I was explaining something that I thought was _patently_ obvious, usually to a colleague in the hospital: exasperated patience.

"So, the problem is that I'm _not_ disappointed in you?" I asked, incredulously.

" _One_ of the problems is that you are not disappointed in me." He stood and ran his hand through his hair. "Look, Carlisle, I'm just… I'm having some difficulty accepting the ramifications of what I've become."

"A vampire?" I thought we'd covered this territory months ago.

"That's one word for it, I suppose," he uttered under his breath.

I stood and faced him as the fire grew stronger. "What _ramifications_ do you mean, exactly?"

"The ones that include me attacking my only friend, seemingly without choice, hunting humans, seemingly without choice… I'm not like you were; I have no control at all. I'm… I'm…" His eyes clenched. Whatever it was, he couldn't bring himself to say it.

I paused, watching his face carefully. "You can't use _my_ newborn experience as a gauge of typical control. I assure you, I'm _not_ typical. I'm actually considered something of a freak. I've watched many newborns while with the Volturi, and my experience was… not at all like theirs. You are doing very well…" He scowled and I stumbled over my words. "Edward, truly, you are."

He sighed and looked at his hands.

"Edward, I'm not disappointed."

"Only because you expect so little of me!" The emptiness in his eyes was haunting.

" _What_?"

"You expect nothing of me, so how can I disappoint you? You refuse to acknowledge that I've made a mistake, so how can I apologize for it, or atone? You just want me to ignore it, and that's the one thing that feels _impossible_ to do. You won't even tell me what I did wrong. I have no reason to think I won't react in exactly the same way every time blood is on the air, and that's a terrible thought."

He was angry. Not just at himself, but at me.

"Edward, you can't possibly believe I think so… so _meanly_ of you. I think the world of you! I have every intention of teaching you control… _when_ you're ready." He looked away, seething with frustration. "Before that, it will only serve to frustrate and intimidate you. It's mid December; you're only eleven weeks old. There's no point in putting you through that until you're at least a few months old. You must see that…"

"I see that I'm unworthy of being _taught_ what you were able to do without any help. I'm fundamentally different… _less_ … than you were at my age."

"Edward, that's ridiculous! We're no diff…" He put up both hands, cutting me off, and heading to the door.

"I'm going for a run, Carlisle. I'll hold my breath so I pose no threat, but I'd rather be alone now if you're going to insist on calling me ridiculous."

"WAIT, wait! You're right."

He stopped in the doorway, the muscles of his shoulders clenching as he held his hands on the doorframe.

"I apologize," I said. "You're right. That's not productive." I ran my hand through my hair, cursing my inability to communicate with him. Why was this so hard? I just didn't want him to worry, but I was obviously going about that in the wrong way. I hadn't realized just how much he'd lost in the forest. How much _I'd_ taken from him by refusing to acknowledge the error. He didn't have my centuries of experience to afford perspective. He'd been lost in his self doubt for so long… He didn't want reassurances; he wanted a plan. He didn't need _my_ faith in him, he needed to renew his faith in himself.

He turned slowly in the doorframe, watching my face.

"Please come sit down, Edward. You're right; it's not ridiculous. We obviously have different strengths and weaknesses. I just don't want you to make too much of what you perceive as a failing. Your control is very much in keeping with other newborns… better actually. I've been fairly amazed that I haven't had to intervene before this. You are uncommonly even-keeled for a newborn…" He rolled his eyes and I felt immense relief at the familiar expression. "It's true. So much so that I'm afraid I forget how much you are struggling with this. I'm sorry."

He clenched his eyes, struggling with his frustration. "Why do _you_ get to apologize?"

"I'm apologizing for a real offense…"

"My failure wasn't _real_ enough for you?" he sneered.

I sighed, discouraged that he again thought I wasn't taking his concerns seriously enough. "Please sit down. I'm trying, Edward. Please give me the chance to explain."

He made his way heavily to his chair and sat, his face challenging me. Well, it was better than his avoidance.

"I haven't wanted to show you those other newborns in my memory, because I didn't want you to become desensitized to the deaths and the feeding, but perhaps I should." I allowed flashes of memory fill my mind; countless ravenous newborns. Edward winced.

"I don't think that's helpful," he panted, his face contorted against the vision. I stopped immediately. "So that's it? You think I'm like them? No better than _them_?"

"No, you _are_ better than they were. When you are in your right mind, you have control. When I come home from town, you never react to the fact that my clothes reek like humans. When you heard the truck coming up the road the first time, you hid and held your breath rather than risk the life of a human. You fight it well, Edward. It was just too much that night. You were too thirsty. You'd already turned yourself over to your hunting instincts. And the scent of humans weighed too heavily on the breeze. Everything was stacked against you."

"It could happen again."

"And if it does, I'll protect you again!"

"What, forever? Is that what you want for your life? To baby sit me forever?"

Now I was getting angry. "It won't take forever, Edward," I scoffed. "Your control might not be what you wish it were, and it might not be what mine was — though I take some issue with that — but it _has_ improved. Your eyes shift toward orange every day, and in another six weeks or so they will look much like mine. I'd intended to wait until then to start your training, but we'll start earlier if you want.

"But, yes," I continued, "for as long as you need me to protect you, I will! That's what I agreed to, and that's what I'll do. And it's not a burden, Edward," I added as he snorted. "Well, at the _moment_ it's a bit of a burden, but normally it's a joy. It's a JOY to have you as my...in my life."

"And how does that work, exactly, Carlisle? How is it that you allow yourself to think of me as a son, but _refuse_ to act like a father?"

My eyes widened as my mind filled with interactions between my father and me, things I never wanted to relive…

"Oh for Christ's sake, Carlisle! I'm not asking you to beat the crap out of me. You've already done that…" There was just a hint of his smirk as he said it, but there was a fury in his eyes that built as he continued. "I'm asking you to help me own up to my mistakes, and find a way to avoid the same ones in the future. My father would have _never_ let me off the hook so easily after attacking him verbally, much less physically, and neither would any teacher I've ever had. You're too easy on me. You just coddle me and give me presents, and you don't expect _anything_ of me! You don't even expect me to speak respectfully to you. Are you really so afraid of me leaving, so afraid of being alone again, that you would keep me _helpless_ and placated just so I'll stay?"

I gasped. He was just being cruel now… lashing out at me with my greatest fears to get a rise. Perhaps he was right; perhaps I needed to be less doting and more strict with him, though obviously my father's techniques were out of the question. And the truth was I would never force him to speak to me respectfully. If I earned his respect, he'd speak to me that way. If, as was currently the case, he did _not_ respect my actions, it was better for both of us that he say — and I hear — whatever it was he saw as the problem. The mere fact that he would tell me of problems he perceived was an act of respect in itself. As for his teasing and 'old man' comments, I'd always seen them as more affectionate than disrespectful… and I missed them now that our relationship was so strained. Strained not by his failure, but from _mine_. For that is truly what had happened. I had failed him in the way I reacted after the incident. I'd worked so hard to protect him from his sense of guilt, that I'd failed to protect his dignity, and now it was quite wounded. I'd made him feel infantile, incompetent, and worthless. I didn't even give him an opportunity to redeem himself, though I now saw that every fire built and every song played for my comfort had been an attempt at just that. I fueled his self doubt, and now it seemed he was doubting everything: his strength, his tie to me, his tie to music, his worth, the remnants of his human nature, his very spirit… And then something clicked in my mind, and I cocked my head to study his expression, realizing that these problems ran _much deeper_ than I'd realized. He fidgeted under the strength of my gaze and the train of my thoughts.

"You are not helpless, Edward. Far from it. And any gifts I've given you have been offered out of affection and a desire for you to be comfortable while you live with me. They were never _bribes_ to placate you." To his credit, he looked rather ashamed. I scrubbed my face with my hand and then raked my fingers through my hair, feeling at once overwhelmed and sobered by all I needed to set right. But I needed a chance to think about what he'd said, and how it fit together with my other observations.

"I need some privacy with my thoughts," I said, almost apologetically. "I'm going for a short run." He looked slightly panicked. "I promise I'll consider everything you've said carefully. I'm done ignoring your concerns. I'm very sorry for leaving you alone with your worries for so long. It was unpardonable, and caused you unnecessary pain." I looked at the fire briefly before returning my eyes to his. "It won't happen again, Edward." He studied my face, and then nodded. I clapped his shoulder gently, saying, "I'll be back soon." I offered him what I hoped was a reassuring smile, and left the warmth of the house, heading north into the forest.

EPOV

Standing in the doorway, watching him disappear from view, I realized what a rare sight it was to see Carlisle fleeing _my_ presence. He went into town to run errands every few days, but that was not solely for the purpose of avoiding me. _I_ was the one who had been keeping us apart, keeping him at arm's length since we'd returned. Suddenly I longed to feel his hand on the nape of my neck, his eyes reassuring mine with understanding and compassion.

I'd actually made him _angry_ , if only for a moment. I'd never seen him angry before. Hurt, concerned, defensive… but never angry. I hugged my arms around myself and backed into the parlor, closing the door. I looked around the house feeling lost. I'd upset him so much that his accent was more pronounced… a mixture of British and French and Italian lilts. That only rarely happened.

I considered playing a record on the gramophone… to soothe the savage beast that was me. The piano was absolutely out of the question, if I was looking for comfort. Sitting at the piano became more uncomfortable almost each time I tried to play. In the end I decided to just sit in my chair, across from Carlisle's, and watch the fire. The crackling was at once soothing and rife with energy. I felt like I was crackling inside, waiting.

I missed his thoughts. As irritating as it was that he had refused to take my apologies seriously, his thoughts were still more comforting than my own. I'd accused him of finding me unworthy of his tutelage, but I knew it was a lie. Carlisle found me _too_ worthy. He was wrong about me. I was becoming the worst type of monster. As my human memories faded, I was nearing the point where I no longer recognized myself. Still unable to resist blood, newly unable to resist attacking Carlisle, and increasingly unable to _feel_ enough to play with even a modicum of sincerity. Now that I had yelled at him, finally expressed everything that had been building for days, I felt empty and exhausted. I was slipping into a black despair, and without him here, without his thoughts grounding me, my mind felt as dangerous as quicksand.

I longed for the easy camaraderie we'd shared before I sensed that my humanity was truly slipping away. Now I felt as though I were losing not only my first family, but Carlisle as well. The more he insisted there was nothing wrong, the more distant I felt from him. How could he even pretend that was true? My perfect memory recalled every snarl, every insult I'd thrown at him, every lunge, every time my teeth sank into his flesh and I heard it tear. _That_ sound haunted me like dissonant chords, overpowering any other notes I played. He _had_ to let me make it up to him. We _had_ to get back to a point where we could trust and talk to each other, or I didn't think I would survive my immortality.

I felt so torn: angry with myself, angry with him. And lost… so lost. I put another log on the fire as I waited, hoping the warmth would sink down to my core and relieve this sense of dread. I curled my legs up into the chair with me, hugging my knees in tight. Staring into the flames, I started to hear music, and glanced at the gramophone before realizing that it was Carlisle's thoughts; he was on his way home. I took a deep stabilizing breath.

In a moment he was through the door, brushing the snow out of his hair and peeling off his sweater to hang by the fire.

"I'll just change and be right down Edward." I nodded and continued to wait. In moments he was downstairs in dry clothes and sitting in the other chair, his mind still full of music.

He looked in my eyes for a moment, noting the color, and said, "I hadn't intended to start yet, but I think perhaps you are right, and we should begin working on your control sooner than I'd planned. I need to get some things from town. Depending on what I find, we might start as early as tomorrow, but if not, it will be in a few days. Is this agreeable to you?"

I nodded.

"Good. I want you to understand that we'll be taking things slowly, and because we are starting before your eyes are clear, you will likely have… setbacks. I want you to try to keep things in perspective, and not get too discouraged."

I snorted and looked down at my hands. I was in a near constant state of discouragement lately. But Carlisle was right, thinking negatively would not help my efforts.

"I'll try," I agreed.

"Good."

I waited for him to continue, to tell me my consequences for attacking him. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked at his hands, stalling.

"And the attack?" I asked. "Are you going to discipline me for attacking you?"

"No, Edward, I can't punish you for following your instincts… instincts _I'm_ responsible for you having in the first place. But I'll allow you to atone for your actions if it will make you feel better."

"What do you mean?"

"You can do something for me. Something that I think will ultimately help you." I looked in his mind to see what he was getting at, but he was remembering another concert; a relatively recent one, judging from what the audience was wearing.

"Anything," I finally whispered, relieved he was offering me this chance.

"Oh…do not agree so easily," he said darkly. "You are not going to like it."

I still couldn't see his intentions; the piano music from his memory was drowning everything else out. But really, it didn't matter. I felt so terrible, I would do anything to make it up to him… and I trusted that he would never ask me to do something that would harm me, it was just going to be unpleasant… a chore of some sort.

"Anything," I repeated.

"Play Chopin."

I realized that the concert in his head _was_ Chopin — the maestro himself. It was wonderful… painfully passionate and beautiful. I knew I wasn't capable.

"Anything but that," I spat.

"That is what I require. You asked for atonement and that is my one and only demand. Play Chopin."

"I have played it."

"No you haven't."

"I have, four weeks ago…"

"Oh, it was played…" he said, almost condescendingly. "The notes on the page became sound waves in our home, but _you_ did not play it — there was none of _you_ in it. It sounded like…"

"…a player piano." I finished for him. I stood, agitated. His eyes softened somewhat, and he said nothing, but I heard the agreement in his thoughts. My face distorted in pain at the truth I'd been hiding from.

"I can't…"

"Why not? You play Mozart, and Bach... Chopin is one of your favorites; you told me how you loved to hear your father play Chopin, how beautifully he played it. You can't possibly see yourself less able to play than your human father. It's a link to your parents… you _need_ to play it, Edward."

"I _can't_!" I screamed.

"You must!"

"You need a soul to play Chopin!" I sobbed. "You need a soul for it, or it doesn't sound right. I don't want to hear it like that — mechanical and lifeless — I won't subject those exquisite compositions to my pedantic and precise fingers. They deserve better than that! They deserve better than me!"

Warmth and conviction flooded Carlisle's eyes, and he walked over to me slowly, considering my words. I'd confirmed his suspicions. He saw this as the crux of everything I was struggling with. I was afraid for a moment that he was going to embrace me, but he just placed each of his hands on my shoulders, forcing me to face him.

"Edward, you are the most passionate man I've ever had the privilege of calling a friend. I realize you believe I've taken your soul, but I look at you, and I _know_ it can't be true. It just can't. You are more than the sum of your instincts, Edward; more than your thirst for blood and your meticulously swift fingers. You feel pain and doubt! You suffer anguish, Edward, I _see_ it. So use it! Make something beautiful with it. Channel it so it can't consume you. If you allow yourself to feel faith in your own heart, _I_ believe you'll do more justice to Chopin than any other I've heard. _I_ have faith in you."

"Your faith is blind!" I spat.

"No, it's not. I see you, Edward."

I glared at him, but his face was impassive again. "Don't ask this of me. This is not atonement. This is punishment! Making me hear Chopin like that is a _punishment_. Making me responsible for producing that lifeless drivel is _torture_. You are following in your father's footsteps." It was the worst thing I could think to say to him, and I saw him flinch as I heard his internal _no!_ I caught a bit more internal dialog, before the Chopin concert regained the foreground of his mind. He dropped his arms, wondering if he were being as brutal as I suggested, and decided that this was for my own benefit.

"The simple answer, then, is don't produce lifeless drivel. You asked me to be firm, to offer you a correction. You asked me to find a way out of this morass you are in. This is what I deem necessary. Do it, or don't do it, but don't ask me to play this role if you won't trust my judgment." He flexed his hands stiffly at his sides, struggling to control his emotions. "I need to go to town. You stay in the house." It was not a request. He was angry again; angrier now than when we started. He could forgive me my potentially deadly weakness when blood was on the air, but he could not forgive me seeing less in myself than he saw in me. And I was too angry to be touched by this _entirely_ paternal sentiment, and frustrated that my efforts to make things better between us had actually made things much, much worse. I stormed up to my room, and I heard the front door slam just as I slammed my own door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boys, boys, boys, do we really need to slam doors? Sorry everyone, it's going to be painful personal growth for a few chapters… the piano honeymoon was fun, but it couldn't last.
> 
> If you want to know where I am in writing future chapters, chat about the characters, etc. you can follow me on Twitter at ATONAU. I usually mention something as I'm writing, and give previews. I'd love to hear from you there or here. And comments are like Chopin…good for the soul.


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